Rein
by Seikah
Summary: Taylor triggers with the ability to summon Servant Taylors from later in her canon timeline. They get along great. Peggy Sue premise, altpower so much the altpower has altpowers.
1. 1-1

_Stick to the Boardwalk_.

My mind kept returning to that phrase, spoken in my mom's voice. It wasn't some sage lesson, just something she'd occasionally tell when I was younger. Over the years it'd become a rule, and it was one I'd never broken.

 _Until now,_ I thought, as my feet took me away from the Boardwalk. Into the city, breaking the rules.

Considering it was still broad daylight, and that I'd taken the bus for most of my journey, it felt pretty pathetic that my brain was making such a big deal out of this. _Just nerves._ I palmed the can of pepper spray in my coat's pocket, pulled up my scarf. It protected half my face from the February winds, as well as potential onlookers. I was more concerned with the latter.

I wasn't a cape. I didn't have a costume. But today, I'd find my power, and that meant I couldn't be recognized.

At least, I _t_ _hought_ it was my power, the feeling that was currently pointing me at the northern part of the Docks. If it _wasn't_ my power... no, I'd stressed over that possibility plenty already. I was committed now. Whatever it was, I needed to know what it kept going into the Docks for. I wasn't sure what my worst case scenario was, but ever since it'd appeared in my head two weeks ago, more than a few scary ideas had come to mind. Was my power hurting people?

I hadn't heard of any trouble, and my dad hadn't brought up anything. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened to _me_ either, unless I counted Sophia sending some boys after me to duct tape me to a telephone pole, which I didn't. I _was_ having some weird dreams, dreams that slipped away as soon as I woke up, but I wasn't sure if that was relevant, or even when they'd started.

Insects and spiders. White doors and gold light. Weird how those last two were the nightmares.

In any case, I needed to investigate, and skipping afternoon classes to do it during daylight felt like a good compromise between necessity and self-preservation. I'd started exercising last week, and while I wasn't fit, I could at least avoid tripping like some horror movie victim. Wrapped in my heavy coat, I walked on.

I'd read up on things over the last weeks, and I knew this wasn't how powers normally worked – as much as there could be anything normal about powers anyways. It was supposed to be instinctive. I did have some intuition about my power, it was just that the controls I felt didn't seem to control anything.

What I could do was spread an energy between four... options? No, a little more personal than that. Presences maybe. I didn't know what they were, and I struggled to even describe the difference. Distinct but overlapping, separated by a _distance_ that I wanted to call time, but not time in any unit or direction I could visualize. I could invest energy into one, or multiple, or none, but every combination I'd tested gave me a variation of nothing. The most I got was when I focused on one, which let me know where it was. But even then, nothing _happened_. There was nothing to see, or hear, or feel.

The first presence – first because it felt the youngest – usually stayed close to me, not doing anything. It felt light, unburdened, though fragile.

The second was... older, bigger, frustrated, and the most active. It went into the Docks whenever I let it, and I got the sense it was _doing_ something there. Confirming that was my goal for today.

The third was _sharp_ , though sad. It usually stayed around me like the first, though once, I'd woken up in the middle of the night and sensed it halfway across the city. I'd stopped giving it free rein after that, but I couldn't be sure how often I'd missed it. Frankly, I was more concerned with the third than anything, but unlike the second, it wasn't consistent enough to investigate.

There was a fourth. I hadn't experimented with it. It said enough that I'd rather chase the second presence into ABB territory than test the fourth in the safety of my home. It felt _wrong,_ like it would cost me something. Something I couldn't take back.

The state of the city got worse with each block I passed. The buildings were in noticeable disrepair, and the people on the street got progressively more drunk or drugged, or more _dangerous_. I had to skip a street to avoid a group in red and green.

Gradually, the city became quieter, the streets emptier. Was that normal? These parts were neglected by the city – I doubted the surroundings buildings even had power – but this shouldn't have been one of the completely deserted neighborhoods. Shouldn't there be some cars around? People?

It was hard to tell if my worries were warranted. Anxiety had been my life for over a year now, and over the last few weeks, it'd noticed that constant worry colored my thoughts on pretty much everything. I didn't think I was _wrong_... but I'd come this far.

My objective was inside, no, on top of a two-story building. I circled around into an alley and found a fire escape that led right up to the rooftop I needed. Suspiciously convenient. Unless whatever I was chasing couldn't fly either.

I hesitated as I climbed. What did I hope – or fear – to find? The presence felt more solid now than before, so I should at least see _something_. It shouldn't hide. If it was going to go that far to avoid me, it could've easily fled. I climbed the final steps.

It didn't hide. _She_ didn't.

The woman stood at the center of the rooftop, tall, her back straight, facing at an angle away from me. She wore a costume in mottled blacks and grays – a hood, a cape-shawl and a ragged semi-dress, with some kind of suit underneath, armored with edged panels. _Soft c_ _loth_ _hiding_ _sharp edges_ _._

She turned when the rooftop gravel crunched beneath my feet, her movement too calm to suggest I'd surprised her. Her hood concealed her face in unnatural shadow, completely opaque. Some kind of effect?

I opened my mouth, searched for words, came up empty. What was I supposed to say, or do? I'd set out to find the _something_ on the other end of my power, and I'd found a _someone_ instead. What was she? Had my power made her? Or had it connected to someone who already existed? I didn't recognize her, but she did seem like the kind of cape who didn't want to be seen.

' _A_ _re you my power?_ ' almost escaped my mouth, but if she could return an intelligent answer, she was obviously more than just a power. _A person._ And if I had as little control over my power as I was starting to fear, I didn't want to be rude.

She broke the silence first. "This isn't a safe neighborhood. Why did you come?"

"I... was curious," I ventured. It seemed neutral enough. "And I had to know what you were doing. If it wasn't something—"

"Criminal?"

"Dangerous."

"You thought I might be dangerous, so you made it a reason to seek me out." Her voice wasn't mocking, but I could definitely hear a raised eyebrow.

"That's not—" I cut myself off. "I didn't – don't – think you're dangerous to _me_."

"Right." She turned away, gaze aimed in the direction of a distant building, a tower of some kind. "And? I can guess what you were afraid to find. What did you hope for?"

An eerie echo of the question I'd asked myself a minute ago. I hadn't had an answer, then. Or perhaps I'd thought finding _anything_ would be good enough? I shook my head. "I'm not sure."

She kept quiet for a few long moments. "I'll be honest on your behalf, then. You came here to find something that was _yours_ , because that feeling inside your head has become something you look forward to. It's why you signed up for first aid classes, why you started exercising. I won't call it _hope_ , but it's been something to focus on, distract yourself with. A promise of power and an escape to work toward."

 _She knows me._ That thought occurred to me before any thoughts of denial, even if I couldn't find myself in her words completely. I considered things, weighed my response. "Okay. Maybe that's fair. But you could've been hurting people. Maybe I should've done something else, but I wasn't lying."

"You weren't. It wouldn't feel that way. That's how rationalization works." Her words stung, a dismissal from someone I'd presumed to be on my side. But her voice was more resigned than anything. Sad, even. "You came to find out what I was doing. Okay. The tower I'm looking at – it's an old tourist shop, now occupied by Merchants. Skidmark is parceling out heroin to his dealers."

Drugs. Goosebumps rose on my arms, unrelated to the cold. Drugs had always spooked me. Going to school at Winslow, I'd seen enough classmates stop coming to school because of them, either directly, or because they got caught up in their parents' addiction. More than the immediate anxiety addicts gave me, drugs struck me as black holes of fucked-up-ness, sucking in the addict and anyone close by. Was she here to stop it?

My power pointed in another direction, arm unwavering, small claws on her fingertips. "Lung, currently showing his face in an ABB office. One of seven I've found."

More directions followed.

"Oni Lee, sharpening his knives. Lives above a grocer."

"Three of four Undersiders, in the loft of an old welding factory."

"Trainwreck, skulking around the trainyards. Less destitute than he'd want you to believe."

"Über and Leet. Playing games."

"Squealer's workshop."

"Independents you couldn't have heard of. Independents _I'_ _d_ never heard of until a week ago."

"Hundreds of unpowered criminals working for the Merchants or the ABB, some desperate, some depraved."

Did she intend to scare me, illustrate how I was surrounded by villains, that I'd been stupid to come here? No. Her report was too matter-of-fact, like finding the locations of half the town's villains was utterly trivial, instead of information the Protectorate would respect and thank her for.

That spooked me in an entirely different way.

"Are you going to arrest them?" _Or scouting out the competition?_

That too-dark hood faced me once more. "No. I stop what I can't leave alone, but capes are chain reactions waiting to happen. I take out the ABB, the Empire expands into the Docks instead. That's a problem to Coil, and he might do something drastic to prevent the Empire from getting a foothold. I need to be in a position to mitigate the damage when I start making big moves."

 _When, not if_. How far ahead was she looking? And how did she know this city so well? It shouldn't have been more than two weeks since she started existing, and I hadn't even activated her every day. Were the four presences one and the same? Four versions of one? That felt right and wrong at the same time.

"Some of the smaller parties are employed by Coil, and I can't afford to provoke him yet," she continued. "The others... I could remove them without collateral damage, maybe, but even if I do, they'll be replaced. So long as there's money to be made, desperate people to work for villains, there will be gangs."

"I... I'm not sure I believe that." Or maybe I just didn't want to believe it. It felt... defeatist, just accepting the state of the city as a given. "Can't the heroes—"

"They can't. Won't. They're an institution too hindered by asinine bureaucracy and image, too attached to a status quo that's little more than an illusion at this point. A _balance_ that lets the ABB conscript fucking middle schoolers into prostitution." For all the fury communicated through my power, her voice was almost even, her body didn't tremble, she didn't ball a fist. "The heroes can't even keep gang violence out of downtown. They won't spare time for the Docks. You know the city neglects the area."

I knew. I remembered it clearly – my dad on the phone with the mayor's office, his revival projects being canceled, layoffs instead of promised jobs. _The first time I saw him lose his temper._

"I could though. Remove them." She stared at her open palm, seeing something I couldn't. "I could get rid of the drugs, the prostitution, the sex slavery, the conscription. The _fear_. And I could keep getting rid of it."

"You'd fix the city?" My voice wavered. I had a sense of where this conversation was going. _She could. Not_ _she_ _will._

"It can't be fixed. Fixing doesn't work. But as I am, I have enough power for positive change. And I think you know why I haven't already started."

 _Because of me._ I couldn't work the words past the lump in my throat. _Because_ _she only exists when I_ _let her._

I felt constricted, hollow, like my heart had left my body. And it was that crushing disappointment that let me admit it. I'd come out here to become a hero. To find my power, learn what it was, see if I could use it. Selfishness wrapped in good intentions.

I'd found my power. _And all she_ _want_ _s_ _from me_ _is_ _to stay out of her business._

It was so fucking unfair. I'd made preparations, hoping something would go my way for once in my life. Like an idiot, I'd dreamed about finding a way to maybe invest my energy in myself, like Dauntless, and give myself the ability to fly, to be powerful. To be someone who mattered.

Instead, my power had given me a slave. And I couldn't even blame her for wanting to be free.


	2. 1-2

For two weeks, I'd lived with a secret, a promise that I'd be something _more_ than the meaningless bullied schoolgirl. It had become a foundation, a support, and that was what had just disintegrated beneath my feet. My escape had gone, and my days were heading back to a very familiar hopelessness.

But I wasn't going to cry for such a stupid self-centered reason. Not here, not in front of her. _I'_ _ll_ _get over_ _this_ _._ _It's j_ _ust_ _one more disappointment._ I wasn't sure I believed it myself, but the bitter resignation helped stave off my tears.

I glanced at the fire escape, or at least the blur it was in my watering eyes. As soon as I trusted myself to make my way back, without my power pointing me in the right direction, I'd leave. I didn't know what I'd do about _her,_ my power, whatever, but if she had anything more to say to me, she could damn well deign to talk to me at home.

"It wasn't my intention to make you cry," my power said. "And maybe that was unfair. But I can't apologize for resenting _this_." There was a tug on our connection – _her_ _leash_. It was a signal, just that. No possibility of her breaking free. It just made me feel worse.

"I didn't fucking _ask_ for this power."

"Yeah." There was a weight behind the word. "I suppose some things don't change." She turned away, back to the city. "I'm wrapping up here. You can swap me for the first if you want a ride home. I suspect she's willing."

Her words slowly registered – the implication of them. Not four versions of one. Four distinct presences after all. _Four people I'll only be able to give one fourth of a life each._

And, I reasoned, if the one I'd met sat at an average level of resentment, at least one of them had to absolutely _loathe_ me. The thought made me feel sick, nauseous, a burning in my stomach. Guilt. No, it was more than that.

Life had been trying to drive me into a corner for over a year now, but I'd always been able to find refuge, even if it was temporary. I could flee from school at home, I had weekends. On the rare occasions my dad wanted to talk, bring _school_ into my sanctuary, I could count on him to respect my boundaries. It wasn't perfect. God, it wasn't. But I'd always had a place to escape and recover.

None of that was true for my power. There was no escape, not one, not anywhere, not for a minute. It would be with me for the rest of my life.

 _Trapped._

Again that crushing grip grabbed hold of my insides. I had to get out – away. _Do_ something, find a way to solve this. I needed to breathe. Couldn't. Was – was I having a panic attack?

My power snapped her head back to me. In a whirling storm of black specks, she _dispersed_ , and my power twinged at the same time. A push sideways that wasn't sideways,trying to force my energy from the second into the first. I could stop it. Trivially. Almost wanted to, because I wasn't ready to face another person who probably hated me. But I didn't.

The next thing I felt were arms around me.

Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I registered what this was. It didn't matter. I squirmed and struggled, fighting because _this_ constraint was something that could be fought. But the arms proved far too strong.

Hated this. Feeling weak, useless. Frustration fueled one last attempt at ripping away, wrenching my shoulders, and it yielded precisely the same result.

Maybe it was the distraction, but I was breathing normally again, even if I still felt miserable. The panic had passed. When I belatedly realized I could've just dismissed her with my power, she was already letting go.

"What a mess, huh?" Her voice was identical to the other one. Unnerving, how that didn't surprise me at all. She backed away, stood at a comfortable distance. Her appearance was somehow minimal. Sleek, elegant, but no cape-shawl, no dress, no concealing hood, just a skintight suit with armored panels in the same mottled black-and-gray. I couldn't tell if the armor was lighter or heavier, but it had softer lines, smoother edges. The outfit still looked plenty edgy, maybe even villainous, just... not as sinister.

The mandibled mask with its yellow lenses was eerie, but the way her hair was left free made her seem a lot more approachable. Or maybe personable? No, neither word really fit. Maybe her hair just reminded me of mom.

"Sorry about that, didn't think. And sorry about Caster." Her voice was lighthearted, very normal. "She struggles with restrictions that don't make sense to her, which pretty much describes our current existence. She's probably less frustrated with you than you think. More with the situation."

"Right," I mumbled. Sure _sounded_ like she blamed me for not being able to fix the city.

There were a few moments of silence, of non-communication. No speech, no movement, she didn't stand in any particular way, and her facial expressions were hidden. Creepy. Made me wonder if capes on TV had to practice to be expressive in costume.

She was the one to break the silence. "For what it's worth, this situation isn't so bad. I won't say it's ideal, or even appreciated, because I doubt you'd believe me. But I think we'll end up making it work."

Sweet words. I wanted to believe them, to have the comfort of knowing at least one part of my power could be optimistic about things, a part I could feel less guilty about. But it didn't fit. "Then why the stupid hide and seek? Why avoid me for weeks?"

"We... needed time to acclimatize, find our bearings. To prove and disprove some theories before we started planning, then acting. We were always going to involve you at some point, but the others were hoping to improve your situation first. Caster only stopped hiding because you started to endanger yourself."

What? My mind latched onto that terrifying phrase: _i_ _mprove my situation._ Why? How would it even be able to help? What if it got out I had powers? I felt a spike of panic at the absolutely dizzying number of things that were just _wrong_ about my power involving itself in my life like that.

"Yeah." She sighed. "I wasn't a fan of that either, but I got overruled two against one. Not that we've set up a democracy inside your skull or anything, but I trust the others. Sorry. I know that probably feels like a betrayal."

Could she have convinced the others to just approach me honestly, immediately? To not go behind my back? I didn't know, but I got the sense she could've fought for it harder. It put me in mind of some of my teachers – aware of my situation, but unwilling to act, unwilling to stand up for me, or at least not willing _enough_. She was right. From someone who was acting like she was on my side, it did feel like betrayal.

"I _am_ sorry about that," she continued, and she did sound... maybe not apologetic, but regretful. "I think all of us want to be honest, but we know enough about this world to know how honesty and full disclosure can screw with us."

"And I don't?" I couldn't tell when I'd gotten my power, not exactly, but the presences had existed for maybe two weeks. I'd lived in Brockton Bay for fifteen years. It was obvious they were getting information from somewhere, but it felt ridiculous that they could just dismiss me like that. "Then _explain_."

She shook her head. "I can't." _She w_ _on't._

I focused on my breathing. "Then what _can_ you tell me? What _are_ you?"

"People? Personalities? Points of view?" She shrugged – my connection to her made it seem more helpless than indifferent. "I'm uncomfortable with it, but the third thinks we're images of a person who could've lived. Who did live, from where we're standing. Each of us a stage in her life."

I tried to process that. And failed miserably. "Why the hell did that end up as my power?"

"I really _really_ wish we had an answer to that. It would make things a lot easier." She looked to her left. "We can think about it later. For now, we should move. It's not urgent, but we've been heard, and I can't keep people away as subtly as Caster was."

My own check of the surroundings didn't reveal much more than gray sky and dreary brick buildings. Our rooftop was about as high as buildings got around here, well outside plain sight. Someone down on the street?

"Do you want to fly?"

I snapped my head to her, then frowned. What kind of question was that?

"Your notes," she said. "They gave me the sense you were hoping for a flying power. I realize I'm probably the farthest thing from what you had in mind, but if you want to fly, I can take you. But I'll understand if you don't trust me yet."

She was right – I didn't trust her. At the same time, something about the way she said it urged me to prove her wrong. Maybe if I'd display trust here, she'd pay it back somewhere down the road? Or maybe I just wanted to see my power, even if I'd never be able to use it directly. "Show me."

She held out her hand, palm upward, and a small black beetle descended from above. She could attract bugs? To... carry her into the air? I wasn't taking physics, but that seemed unlikely.

"This will look a little creepy."

The beetle _cracked_ and swelled at the same time, bloating to the size of a tennis ball, the cracks in its chitin revealing glistening muscles. The exposed flesh almost instantly hardened into chitin, only to shatter again with the next violent expansion.

Despite the warning, I took a step back. The beetle convulsed again, now cat-sized, its chitin cracking, its insides rumbling like stone grinding stone. Spikes and spurs and horns and fangs shot out in almost every direction, with claws and pincers forming on its increasingly thick limbs. Between expansions, the bug fluttered to the rooftop on brown wings, landing just as the next burst of growth arrived.

I could only stare as my power demonstrated that yes, you could scare off natural laws if you had a big enough bug.

Bizarrely, it got _less_ unnerving as it passed the size of a bicycle. Normal bugs were instinctively creepy. Big bugs intensified that. But a bug this absurdly huge was... unreal somehow, like my mind started registering it as the kind of power weirdness you'd sometimes see on television. It helped that it was starting to look nicer – the sharp edges were rounding, and its colors bleached with each expansion. The chitin went from black to blue, even white in places, and the wings became clear as ice or glass.

The beetle stopped expanding when it reached the size of a car. No one would ever call it friendly-looking, and its gruesome growth was still fresh in mind, but it didn't take a bug enthusiast to admit there was a beauty to it. Six-legged, symmetrical, with scales of chitin overlapping like armor, and a mesmerizing pattern in its wings. Sky-blue chitin glittered in the sunlight.

I approached it, my power whispering that it wouldn't hurt me, that it _couldn't_. Still wasn't going anywhere near its fang-riddled maw, but I reached out, careful my hand didn't get trapped between chitin plates. I could sense its weight beneath my fingers, the power. I wouldn't be able to budge it if I tried.

"Faster if I don't bother making him look nice. Stronger too, pretty sure."

"You can decide?" I traced one of its – his – legs with my fingertip. Somehow not as sharp as they looked.

She waggled her hand in a so-so gesture. "Some. We had a mount like this once, created by an ally. The fact he was designed must've carried over. Don't ask me why it became part of my own power, or why me and not the others. We're still trying to find the logic."

"It's... it's not sentient, is it?" Was controlling thinking beings going to become a _thing_ with me? God I hoped not.

She shook her head. "No thoughts, no personality. I think I could've given him one, but it would be cruel. Like the original was designed, the original expired. Part of what they are. He'll degenerate when you swap me out."

Oh. Even if it was just an unthinking tool, that struck me as a little sad. But it also meant I didn't have to hide a beetle the size of a Volkswagen, so good. Where would I have put it?

"And it's safe to fly this?" I'd trust my power if she believed it could carry us, and the blue and white probably worked as camouflage, but it was still a huge bug. It was going to draw attention, and I could think of a few local villains who could fly too.

"Should be. No reason for anyone to pick a fight with us. We might meet some heroes if their response is fast today." She looked toward the bay, to the heroes' base of operations floating in the water. The Protectorate HQ was tall enough to see from just about any rooftop in the Docks. "Shouldn't be a problem. Just be ready to hide your face."

Unlike the second, this aspect of my power didn't seem as openly adversarial with the heroes. Very much _like_ the second, she didn't seem to consider joining them for even a moment. Nor did she consider the possibility I'd approach the heroes myself. Were they that sure I wouldn't ask for help? That I wouldn't join the Wards? The PRT were good about informing people of the benefits, and they probably had experience with independent creations like my power. Rationally, approaching them was the most sensible thing to do.

I considered it. Briefly. No, my power had me pegged. Even now, with a power I'd _really_ appreciate a second opinion on, the idea of joining the Wards was hard to process. I'd be trapping myself in schedules and legal obligations. I'd be dealing with adult oversight that, even if it wasn't malicious, could be negligent, or could be used against me. The fact I'd need to deal with other teenagers just drove the point home. With my luck, the Wards would turn out to be Winslow with powers, more of the exact same things that were making my life miserable.

And at the end of the day, I was more afraid of that than I was afraid of my power. At least for now. I could afford to wait and see how they were going to help the city.

My power jumped onto the giant bug and held out her hand. It was surprisingly soft.

Flying should've been terrifying. My white-knuckled hands were cramping around the horn I clung to, the wind bit at my exposed ears, and the arms around me were a constant reminder that my power could let me fall whenever she wanted. It should've been terrifying. It surprised me that it wasn't.

Even knowing it wasn't really _my_ power in the sense I wanted it to be, flying was exhilarating. The wind in my hair, the humming vibration of the bug's wings, the way my weight shifted when the beetle adjusted course... I just wanted to go faster, higher. The beetle obeyed.

Glancing down at the city gave me full-body pins and needles, but even that primal fear was exciting in its own way. Everything looked so small. The bay, the Docks, the rest of the city. I couldn't find my house at first, so I found the Weymouth shopping center and traced the streets from there. In the distance, the downtown skyscrapers scraped the sky less than me. _S_ _o small._ The houses, the people in the street. It was somehow comforting.

None of this wiped away my worries and problems, but right now, right here, I could believe they weren't so massive, not so overwhelming. It was a startling perspective – refreshing, slightly easing the constant anxiety I'd come to accept as normal. Maybe I'd make it through school if I just had _this_ , every once in a while.

Too soon, the beetle descended, landing in an abandoned area in the western outskirts. Still pretty far from my house, but away from gang territory. As soon as we dismounted – and quickly moved to an out-of-sight alley – the bug rose into the air again, flying toward Captain's Hill. Drawing away pursuers?

"That was... nice. Thanks, um?" I tried making the silence an invitation, but it wasn't accepted. Or noticed. "Sorry, what do I call you?"

"Oh, right," she said, a little sheepish. "Just call me Rider for now, I guess. It's what your power calls me. Maybe I'll find something better later."

"And you said the second was Caster." The names seemed a little generic, but I got the sense they weren't worried about it. Confident they could _make_ the names impressive? "And the others?"

She shook her head. "I'll let the third introduce herself." Another thing she wouldn't explain. What was that apprehension? And why wasn't she acknowledging the fourth?

Still, I nodded. Meeting the rest was a bullet I'd have to bite sometime. I had momentum now, and I'd probably struggle to sleep tonight if I stopped here. Rider had given me a little hope that maybe everything wouldn't be terrible.

As I prepared to shift my energy, Rider dissolved into black specks – limbs first, head last. Her presence was still in her previous position, most of it, just… not as much? Weird. I'd been assuming they had some kind of invisibility or intangibility, but now I was wondering if my power hadn't just come with an eco mode.

The third presence manifested similar to how the others disappeared – black specks appearing out of nowhere, drawing together. My first thought was _white._ White armor, white lenses. The bodysuit and extra pieces of cloth were still black, but I cautiously considered her appearance a good sign. Where the others had looked villainous, or anti-heroic if I was being generous, the third looked… balanced.

Strange thought, considering she was missing half of one arm.

"Um. Hi." I cringed a little at my awkwardness. This was the first time I'd met her, but _she_ 'd been able to observe me for weeks. "Rider told me to let you introduce yourself?"

She stared at me before answering. Her hood was up, but it had none of the second's unnatural darkness. Not as unnerving, but still _intense_.

"I suppose I'll use your power's name for me, like the others."

"Which is…?"

"It calls me Assassin."

A chill ran across my back. Assassin – and the presence I'd kept track of _least_. The one that had gone out while I was sleeping, likely more than I'd noticed. What had she done? The second had been scouting the Docks, but the third… had she hurt anyone? Killed?

 _They were hoping to do something about my situation._

"Where did you go." I swallowed a lump in my throat. "Those nights I let you roam freely. Where did you go?"

There was a silence, one I almost didn't want broken.

"The grave of Annette Hebert, and the home of Alan Barnes."


	3. 1-3

_Why._

For a good few moments, my mind didn't manage anything more coherent than that single word. My blood felt like ice in my veins, still did when my power spoke.

"First things first," she said. "Annette was my mom, and I'm you. We're you. Being vague about that would just cause unnecessary drama later. You'll have to forgive Rider for leaving that call to me."

She shook off her hood, and despite the glum alley, I could tell she had the same black curls as Rider. The same black curls as mom, as me. She was me? Like from another earth? Pulled into this world by my power?

"I could unmask, or tell you things only you could know. Considering your power arguably created both my body and memories, I doubt you'd accept that as proof." She sighed. "It's not a problem if you don't believe me yet. I don't expect shortcuts to trust. Just keep it in mind as a possibility."

The possibility I considered more likely was that my power was delusional, but that wasn't important right now. "Alan Barnes. Why?"

"I persuaded him to take his family and move elsewhere." Like discussing the weather. "Divorce attorney in a dangerous city, he'll have made enemies. It won't lead back to us. I'm familiar with what the PRT would look for, and it shouldn't even come to that."

Nothing about her words reassured me. Emma's dad hated moving. He used to call it his lifestyle to live in the same house till the day he died. Had that day come? Or was I supposed to believe someone who called herself Assassin had bothered to persuade?

Except... I'd seen Emma at school yesterday, even caught a glimpse of her this morning. She'd looked annoyed if anything, not mournful. Even Emma would grieve for her dad, right?

"Is this about Emma? Revenge? I didn't—"

"No. It's about you. Emma is tangential." She paused, another one of those unfair silences, where I got to worry about my body language and she got to hide behind a mask. "Do you think every student in Winslow is completely indifferent to your misery?"

Where was she going with this? I wanted to say yes, because it was obvious, but it was also obvious that she expected that answer. "They're indifferent enough."

"Indifferent enough," she repeated. "Yeah, maybe. Humans are selfish. They're unfair. Petty. Short-sighted. But we're not so hopeless a species that there's absolutely no one who'd help. Who would reach out, if the risk was just a little lower. If Emma wasn't threatening them to leave you alone."

Emma had been doing what? My surprise wasn't because it was unbelievable. With Emma's social skill and standing, she could easily orchestrate my isolation. I just didn't believe that she needed to.

"In less than two weeks," my power continued, "Emma will be gone from the city. Sophia will go from popular thug to thug, and you can handle the others. After that, things will get better. It's not a storybook victory, where the system proves it functions and the bullies get what they deserve. It's not revenge either. But it's a step forward."

I felt a pang of longing at the picture she sketched. I could almost imagine it – attending school and not having to endure. Coming home and not having to rebuild my emotional strength just so I could get out of bed the next morning. But in what fucking world did things ever go that smoothly? It wasn't the one I lived in.

"It won't play out like that. Something will go wrong, and I'll be the one who has to deal with the consequences." I glared at the eyes behind those white lenses. "If you'd just asked, I'd have told you I didn't want... whatever it was you did." She had no right.

"A friend once told me what I wanted and what I needed were two different things." Her voice… I couldn't tell if it was fond or sad. A little of both. "I didn't take her advice then. Told her to cut it out or I'd cut her out of my life. You could do that to me now, remove me and never let me out again. I'll take that risk."

"Why?" I bit out, more demand than question. I wasn't sure what I was even asking. How could she be so self-assured about making decisions for me? Didn't she see the irony of my power robbing me of power, taking away what little control over my life I had?

"Because there's no point if I don't do things better." There was a heat in her words now. She stepped closer, close enough I had to look up to face her. "I'm going to say something obvious. Problems exist to be solved. Sometimes survival is all you can hope for, and sometimes victory comes at too high a cost, but improving your school life? Doable."

"I was getting by," I hissed, wanting to shout but too aware we couldn't draw attention. "I could've toughed it out till graduation, or started online classes next year. There was no fucking need."

"Sure. As a survival strategy, that works. As an escape plan, that works. But say you reach that finish line. What then? Are you going to rebuild your life, armed with nothing but memories of being isolated and betrayed? Your only emotional support a father you struggle to talk to because of the secrets you're keeping?"

Some of my rage drained away, gone to the same place as my words. I had no reply. Besides reaching a vague goal of getting out, of surviving until I could put school behind me, I hadn't given the future any thought. Barely had the energy to think past the next week nowadays. I'd sort of always assumed I'd go on to college, hadn't I? Once? Still?

"I'm not saying that's impossible," she said, her voice softer. "I'm sure there's people who could make a fresh start, leave behind their past completely. That's not us. So trust me. See how things go at school, see if the bullying lets up. If we're lucky, people will approach you for friendship again. If we're very lucky, you'll let them."

There was a lull in the conversation as I tried to articulate my thoughts, sort out feelings of doubt, outrage and maybe a spark of yearning. A distant police siren jarred me out of it. Unlikely as it was, I wondered if it was about me. That Emma's dad had called the Protectorate about being threatened or assaulted, and Armsmaster had used some kind of gadget to connect that to Taylor Hebert, coincidentally today. Was this senseless anxiety what I had to look forward to?

"They're chasing Rider's bug," Assassin said. Ah. So it was about me. Great. "Velocity already passed us. Dauntless will be flying over in a minute, and I expect others won't be far behind. We should move."

Casually, still leaning against the wall, she waved her stump at thin air. A pale gold hexagon lit up in mid-air, as tall as I was, quickly intensifying from gold-colored to actually gleaming like the metal. A forcefield? I expected a mirror, but what it reflected wasn't me. It wasn't even the alley behind it. Like a gold-tinted window in the world, it showed an unfamiliar rooftop, the ocean in the distance.

"After you," Assassin said, confirming a suspicion. A portal. She'd made a portal.

"No." The word left my mouth before I'd even thought it through. Not quite resistance for the sake of resistance. If I meekly obeyed here, I felt like I'd lose something. That I'd set a tone. "No. You can't just dictate where my life should go and expect me to be okay with it."

I glanced at the empty lot Rider had landed her bug in. I could walk out in the open, wave and shout and hope Dauntless noticed me as he flew by. Stupid, but it represented an option. It was something I could choose, even if it was a choice of which party I'd let decide my future.

I turned back to Assassin. "What you're doing, you're making my entire life like school." Surprise group work from the teachers. Ambushes from the bullies. Always anxious, wondering what would happen next, how that would affect me. "Constantly worrying that things outside my control might ruin my day. Except you're doing things that could ruin my life. Your 'help' is almost worse than what it might fix."

No reaction from Assassin. Not even an indication she was listening. Her portal wavered though. Flickered, the edges blurring.

"Rider wants to help but won't," I continued. "Caster resents me. You're working around me. And you're asking me to trust? How the fuck am I supposed to?"

The portal shattered into gold crumbs, fading quickly. Assassin raised her head, banging the back of it against the alley wall. And again, harder. "Fuck. I'm supposed to be better about this."

"I'm starting to think I'd rather have the heroes make decisions for me than my power." I still didn't want to join the Wards, or give myself to the PRT. But it seemed like my power wanted that even less, and... in a backwards kind of way, that made it leverage.

Assassin stayed silent. There was a sound in the wind that might've been Dauntless passing us by. Elsewhere, I imagined the heroes and the police and the PRT coming closer and closer, all with a fair chance of passing by this alley, spot us if they investigated the lot the bug had landed in.

"You know," Assassin said, "if you had any other power, I could imagine things turning out okay if you joined. The heroes aren't all good people, but most of them are, and I know some would have your back. But as long as you have us, I can't tell you that. If we let the PRT chain us, everyone loses. Caster wasn't lying when she said the heroes have to change."

Did they? Could they even? I wasn't sure. I admired the heroes, in the sense that they were inherently admirable, like firefighters, but I knew there was something wrong when a gang of superpowered Neo-Nazis was an accepted reality of life. When nothing seemed to be done about the stories you heard about the ABB, which likely had a larger kernel of truth than I was comfortable believing.

"Let me explain where we were coming from?" Assassin said. "I know words are next to worthless, but this is one of those situations where so many problems can be prevented with the simple truth. I'm not telling you to just accept everything I say, but maybe it'll help you frame the things you see?"

I cautiously nodded. Actions were louder than words, but I didn't lose anything by listening, and I'd always hated those prolonged sitcom misunderstandings that could resolved with an honest conversation. If she was going to lie, she'd need to coordinate it between four different people, and I might be able to catch them out.

"You said Caster resents you."

"If she doesn't, she was trying very hard to give me that impression."

Assassin nodded. "Something like that. Caster was drawn from a time our reputation was all we had. Introducing herself the way she did… it was her way of securing a little bit of control in a situation where she has less than ever." She wasn't looking in my direction, but it seemed she noticed my frown anyway. "Caster told you one thing, Rider told you another, and you chose to believe Caster. You gave her words more weight because of that first impression. Even those scraps of influence are precious to her, to us. Manipulation isn't the right word… or maybe it is the right word. I'll let you decide."

Like a slave without hope for freedom, grasping for the next best thing. Sway over her master. Whether it was manipulation or not, that entire image gave me the creeps.

"She'll be more agreeable when we start advancing our plans. It'll keep us busy, and I suspect she in particular might be able to develop a workaround to your power, given enough time." She muttered something under her breath. It didn't seem meant for me, and I wasn't sure I heard her correctly. Fucking tinkers?

But a workaround, a workaround sounded good. A solution? A way out? She could just be baiting me, but I didn't see why she'd make the lie so specific.

"As for Rider not helping, believe it or not, she's afraid." Afraid? "She reflects our early days, the brief moments of happiness allowed to exist because we lived a lie. Earlier, Rider told you she trusts us. She doesn't. She just trusts herself less, because Caster and I give her perspective on her failings. The path she started us out on. She knows she can't be allowed to make decisions this time."

"But… she seemed cheerful. Optimistic." Relatively speaking. In a way, it was reassuring to know she wasn't just inexplicably, miraculously okay. Hard to trust something I couldn't comprehend.

"She wanted to escape. She wanted to be a hero. Existing as your power fulfills those wishes, in a way she doesn't have to feel guilty for. I'm actually a little worried about how she's coping. Chains and anchors are very different things, and she discarded both. She could use something to keep her tethered." She looked at me, very deliberately. "Maybe a friend."

Me? I failed to suppress a bitter chuckle. "Isn't that a little pathetic? Befriending myself? Assuming you're actually me."

She shrugged. "Maybe. But I think we both know it'll take special circumstances before you let someone in again. Consider it a stepping stone."

Still set on that make new friends idea of hers, I could tell. I ignored that for now. The sirens were getting louder. "Okay. I'll try to understand that. And you? Why the hell scare me like that? Assassin, Alan Barnes?"

"I called myself Assassin because the name I'd choose is already taken." It took me a second, but I could guess which name that was. "I've had others, important because of what they stood for, but they're just names now. And as just names, the first never fit, the second I discarded, and the last is a bad memory. Your power's name for me is as good as any. I can make it work."

In what way could Assassin ever work as a name for anything but an assassin?

"And," she continued, "I admit I did want to startle you. I knew exactly how resistant you'd be to my involvement in your life. Your worst case scenario was probably me murdering my way through all your enemies. Isn't this better?"

No. Yes. Just as bad? Damn it, it was better, but I wasn't going to admit it.

"But as to what I am... I don't know. I've already demonstrated some. Selfish. Hypocritical. Arrogant. Hopefully a little less short-sighted than the others." She hung her head and sighed. Well. Points for self-awareness, even if it was after the fact. She pushed off from the alley wall, then turned to me. There was a weird delay between those motions, like she had to remind herself to look in my direction. "You said I was working around you, and you were right. I think, or maybe thought, that by not working around you, you'd resist. You'd be reckless. You'd do too little good to be worth the harm, and that you wouldn't see things that way."

Judging me before I even did anything to be judged. Because 'she was me', and obviously that made her an expert. "So you decided to improve my civilian life. So I'd be less unhappy staying Taylor the bullied schoolgirl."

"No." She shook her head. "I'm not deluded. Not in this. You'll inevitably join the fight, and we'll help you do it. That's your position in this relationship." A tug on our connection. An unkind, unnecessary reminder. "But you're right. I tried improving your situation before meeting you. Because I hoped – no, I hope you will find a balance. Spend time with dad. Make friends. Finish school. And if you want to be a hero, be one in moderation. Cape life is intense, violent, and lonely, and I've seen where that road leads."

I didn't understand – couldn't. Didn't have the necessary context. But the immense feeling communicated over our connection was clear enough. If it wasn't regret, it was something very close. And what she was saying… it sounded like a middle road. I couldn't help that my power didn't let me fight by myself, and neither could they, but they'd still let me contribute? They'd let me choose if I wanted to? That sounded like something I could maybe be okay with.

"Where that road leads." I turned the phrase over in my mind. "The fourth?"

"No. And yes." Assassin sighed. "I'll probably lose some trust for this, but some things, we can't afford to discuss. You'll be the first to know if that changes."

I didn't like that. At all. But... I suppose I knew what it was like to keep secrets because sharing them would only harm. Didn't feel good to be on the other side of that.

I stood in silence, thinking and listening to the sirens, half expecting Battery to appear in a white blur, or Armsmaster to drop down from the rooftop. Time to make a decision. I tried to recollect that perspective I'd felt when Rider took me flying.

"Tell me you'll be heroes."

"We'll do good. And when it isn't that simple, we'll help more than harm. Shitty definition of heroism, I know. And still harder than it sounds sometimes."

That did sound like a pretty shitty definition of heroism. But it sounded truthful. It sounded experienced. It sounded prepared. And if I was being honest, it sounded like a definition that could've been mine.

A gold portal unfolded before me. I hesitated, then took that first step forward. Doing as my power wanted, maybe, but a little more on my terms.


	4. 2-1: Caster

If I hadn't grown up in Brockton Bay, I probably would've never come to like it. It wasn't beautiful, or pleasant, or comfortable. But if you asked the older Brocktonites, they might boast about the _tenacity_ of the place. Maybe it didn't bounce back, but it held on. It survived its villains, its economy, and in another world, it survived three different S-class threats, then thrived until the moment the world ended. The city was tenacious about its inhabitants too. For me and many others, leaving had never really been an option.

By all rights, I shouldn't like it. But growing up here had made me the kind of person for whom Brockton Bay was _enough._ It was big enough to have everything I wanted out of a city, and it was quiet enough I could go for a run and meet no one. That was one of the things I'd always unambiguously liked. The early mornings, when I had the entire city to myself.

Made you wonder if I'd always had the makings of a warlord.

Lying on a couch in my temporary base, lit by moonlight through broken windows, I sighed. No. What I'd liked was the peace and calm, not some delusion of owning the city. It was a stupid attempt to convince myself I could do this again. To turn this city around by force. To hold it, defend it against all comers, to be prepared for enemies who came at me through the people I called mine.

Stupid, maybe, to get second thoughts on the night I'd step out into the open. The doubt had been there before, but I'd thrown myself into my preparations, planning and helping as much as I could while staying under the radar. Maybe I'd just wanted to prove I could still be relevant. That I would be more than the team tailor, occasionally brought out to weave up some equipment. That might've been how _I'd_ use a projection with my powers.

 _Damn_ _tinker_ _s_ _._ _Making my_ _life more complicated, even when_ _it's_ _me._

I rose to my feet and paced around the living room. The house I'd occupied was a vacant residence, all crumbling brick and cracked plaster, more termite nest than wall in some places. My bugs had cleaned the place, I'd patched up some abandoned furniture with silk, but unless I counted my brief time in the shelters... I'd never worked with less. It didn't inspire confidence.

You'd think experience would make it easier. It didn't. Heck, I barely understood how it ever got so far last time. I'd been entangled in it – making up for past failures, working toward future goals, protecting people the best I could. At some point I'd realized what needed doing, so I did it, and I'd kept doing it because there wasn't anyone I trusted to do better.

All of that was less intense now. I had no momentum yet, no commitment. Less guilt to drive me forward. No goal as clear as saving Dinah. And if I had to be honest, it'd been a hell of a lot easier to sympathize with strangers when they were victims who lost everything to Leviathan. The people who needed help _now_ were drunks and addicts. The same people I'd chased out when they'd worn Merchant armbands. It created room for hesitation.

I did still want to help. Revitalize the city somehow. But the stupid thing was, even knowing how things turned out, how I'd felt about it, what I became to move forward? I wasn't sure what I'd do different. I'd been successful, hadn't I? Power, money, prestige, respect, my goals nominally achieved. But I hadn't felt good about it. There had been bright spots, but I hadn't been happy. I'd done horrible things and this fucked-up world had rewarded me.

In the end, had 'Skitter' done more good than bad? Depending on what I counted, how much credit and blame I took for events I'd helped set in motion, maybe I came out ahead. Maybe. But if I looked at what had happened to Dinah, to Brian, to the people Mannequin and Burnscar killed because they were mine... my answer to that question wasn't _yes_. I wasn't rational enough to make it into math, and if I was, I had to acknowledge a lot of the good I'd done was built on Coil's resources. I didn't doubt he had ruined lives to get his operations to where they were.

But if I didn't do this _,_ what else did I have? What else was I _allowed?_ It wasn't like I could go back to being Taylor Hebert – this world already had someone filling those shoes. Dad didn't even know I _exist_ _ed_. I dropped back into the crappy couch in my empty home. Fitting, really. I'd abandoned him, over and over. Made perfect sense I'd eventually stop being his daughter. Fuck.

My power chose that moment to expand, stretching a block in every direction, which I grasped onto for a distraction. In the basement back at home... at my dad's house, a caterpillar recorded the time and exact distance, while I processed information from the newly-controlled bugs. Underground worms, ants on surfaces, bugs inside walls and dark corners. It didn't take more than a moment to register everything and everyone in my newest slice of territory. The invasiveness stopped bothering me a long time ago.

It wasn't because of stress, or feeling trapped, or whatever my passenger had originally given me extra range for. This was how my power worked now. Approximately every hour, it _grew_. Outward or inward, in breadth or depth. Prioritizing raw range gave me a little over three hundred feet each expansion, more or less depending on metrics I hadn't found yet. Three hundred forty just now.

It sounded good, a growing power. So far it'd just been an exercise in frustration. It was fragile; if I moved too much, I lost huge chunks of progress. If I shunted my body in that _not_ _all_ _here_ state, or if I was swapped out, I lost it all. And it was _slow._ An extra block of range for every hour I stayed in place? I could cover more ground by walking. It needed almost prohibitive amounts of time to be useful, and even then it felt specialized for just one thing.

 _Territory creation_.

It had taken me eighty-six hours to cover the northern half of Brockton Bay.

From the forest to the bay, I was there. Biting stems and chewing leaves, drinking from raindrops and livestock, all sweet to my senses. My muscles contracted to shake off the winter chill as simple brains shook off the torpor of hibernation. I ate and was eaten, crawled as crabs, swam as krill. My power had never been this vast.

I'd never felt so small.

I'd kept my attention away from them, but now, I looked in on the Undersiders. Bugs brushed by Rachel and the dogs she was tending to. I kept more distance from Lisa, who was doing something on her laptop. Two of my favorite people in the world. They wouldn't recognize me if I passed them in the street.

Regent… I'd expected him to be playing video games, but he was in his room, sketching. I couldn't recall if I'd ever seen him doing it before. What made him quit? The superficial laziness? The part of him that just couldn't care? Or something deeper and truer, the core I'd only ever caught a glimpse of?

I didn't know how to describe the emptiness I felt. Nostalgia, a yearning for something I could tell was _right there_ and also beyond my grasp. Regrets I could never address in the way I wanted.

My senses lingered on Rachel and Lisa. Rachel, I might be able to rebuild a friendship with. It wouldn't be easy, it wouldn't be the same, but I remembered the steps. Lisa though? I wasn't so sure. I wasn't trapped this time around, or I _was,_ but not in a comparable sense. Even if I brought her to my side when I could afford to, it'd be a different dynamic. How much would Lisa come to like a 'Skitter' she wasn't responsible for?

I exhaled slowly. Fine then.

 _N_ _o goodbyes_. _Right,_ _L_ _isa?_

I turned away before her power could notice me.

* * *

I'd told Taylor, the human Taylor, that capes were chain reactions waiting to happen. When I first attacked Lung, I paved the way for the Empire. Bakuda, left with no reputation and a gang barely loyal to her, escalated. Implanted bombs, and her terrorism campaign after she failed to kill us – killing forty-three and debilitating dozens more for life in exchange. Once we dealt with the gang war that followed, Coil had to choose between enacting his plans or letting the Empire capitalize on the ABB's downfall, and he'd taken away their every reason to hold back. I remembered Purity flattening buildings. They hadn't all been empty.

None of that was my _fault_ , not even by a stretch, but I'd played a role. For close to a month, I'd managed to ignore that, my fraction of the responsibility, the faceless strangers hurt by my actions. Until Coil gave them the face of a drugged-up little girl.

I wasn't going down that road again. I was going to be _damn_ careful about where I was going. This entire situation wasn't a second chance, not even one third of one, but it had happened, so we had to make the most of it. If that meant I had to move slower than I liked, maybe that was what I needed. A different path.

I'd always functioned best with a goal, and right now, that goal was turning this city around. It was both a goal in itself and a foundation for everything that came after. Poverty wasn't a problem my powers gave me an obvious way to fix, but before we could even start to try _,_ there was one glaring obstacle.

 _Coil_. Calvert. If it weren't for him, this would be _simple_. Not easy, but simple. Aside from everything the man could do himself, he had powerful eyes on him. What would happen if someone took him out this early? Would Cauldron write off their experiment? Would they replace him with someone stronger, someone I knew nothing about? Would Contessa even let things get that far? I only had a vague recollection of her, barely a memory of a dream, but I didn't believe for a second we hadn't already registered to a power as strong as hers. So why hadn't she done anything yet?

There were too many questions I couldn't answer, so I'd act on what I knew instead. Last time, Cauldron had accepted a replacement for Coil as ruler of the city. _This time_ _it_ _won't_ _be the Undersiders._

First step, a reputation. Cape life revolved around it, enough to consider it a power on its own. Fear deterred attacks, gave credibility to intimidation and bluffs. Respect fostered cooperation, and meant more influence _with_ _in_ that cooperation. Prestige attracted recruits and helped ensure loyalty. Even in fights, reputation affected opponents, shaped their expectations, could be used to create weak spots I could slip bugs inside.

It made people _listen_.

Last time, my reputation had been built gradually, mostly in the process of resolving crises and helping people. Right now, the gangs hadn't gone to war yet. Leviathan hadn't wrecked the city. There was rape and there was murder, both of which I stopped, but I could do very little to actually _help._ I had no way to give proper homes to people living in squalid conditions. I didn't have the time or skill to help addicts, couldn't threaten parents into loving their children, didn't have the resources to cure disease. I _could_ do something about the hungry, but they'd probably object, and putting bugs inside people by force was generally something I saved for enemies.

With the one human body in my swarm, I sighed. I'd have to pick fights instead. Frustrating, how much easier that was.

* * *

My swarm scattered throughout the Docks and the north end, feeding me a million viewpoints every second. The city wasn't the humid breeding ground Leviathan had made it, but we had warm enough winters, and my range gave me bugs to spare.

I found Über and Leet, racing through the streets in configurations of scrap I hesitated to call cars, vandalizing other vehicles they passed by. No doubt a tribute to some game. I didn't really care.

Bugs mapped the streets ahead, blocked off likely routes with swarms dense enough to seem solid walls. When the duo chose to slow down instead of plunge through, another wall swooped in to cut off their retreat. In the time they took to get out of their buggies and draw their guns, spiders webbed up inner mechanisms, beetles chewed through wires and whatever else they could damage. While the duo fumbled with broken buttons and triggers, I painted the rust of their vehicles black with widows.

One step ahead each time. It didn't help my reputation to let the likes of Über and Leet struggle, and I'd given them just enough forewarning it didn't feel like a sucker punch.

I condensed the blockades into human shapes. Swarms of bugs were something you could find if you went looking, but an uncannily humanoid army that couldn't be hurt with any conventional weapon, that threatened immense agony if it reached you? That was memorable. It was something people would talk about, and admit losing against.

Über stood straight, his arms crossed, said something I ignored. I wasn't going to broadcast my bug senses to the world this early. Leet kept trying to pull apart his gun until I gave him a taste of what I could do – a queen-sized hornet where he could literally taste it. A clone pointed the two at a street sign and I left them webbed to it. A nearby resident was already calling the PRT.

Were Über and Leet important in the scheme of things? Did their removal really help anyone besides me? Probably not. But they were more harm than help and I could remove them without consequence. It was that simple.

As an afterthought, I merged my clones into a giant and had it engulf their flying camera.

Next. The Merchants.

It was still bizarre to see them as they were now. The Merchants of my memories were an _environment_ , humanity at its worst, caught up in depravity and desperation. An oppressive fear and anger that made it hard to breathe. The Merchants of today were bums, and aside from some posturing, practically non-violent. A far cry from the gang I'd seen forcibly shooting up kids with cocaine.

Still. You didn't wait for a tumor to grow.

Squealer was in her workshop with a few guards, her trashy clothing protecting nothing. Two neighborhoods south-west, Skidmark was in the tourist shop I'd scouted out before, speaking to some subordinates. And then, with minimal fuss, they were buried in bugs.

Squealer howled as she tried to claw open a webbed-shut door to one of her vehicles. Skidmark tried to evade the bugs by using his power on his coat. Tried. I wasn't sure what he was expecting to happen. My bugs found skin and bit and tore and stung, hurting but holding back their venom. Rider or Assassin could get there in time, but I wasn't going to cut my evening short to jab an EpiPen into _Skidmark_.

Some of the underlings were brave – or _high_ – enough to try and save their bosses from buzzing masses of pain, but most of the unpowered Merchants fled. Wasp-clones violently discouraged those who tried filching drugs or cash in the chaos.

Fifty city blocks away, I poured some tea from a thermos.

The third Merchant cape was watching television at home. I let him be. Not the kind of villain worth violating the code over. I needed people to work _with_ me, not stab me in the back, or decide I was an enemy before we ever spoke. Fear was useful, paranoia wasn't. As long as capes behaved, their civilian identities would be safe from me.

An absent thought coordinated my bugs to abscond with the Merchants' money. No sense being impractical.

Leaving those bugs on autopilot, I moved on, forming a swarm-clone near one of the independent villains I hadn't heard of in my previous world. I intended to warn her off, but the clone was promptly blasted with some kind of pinpoint lightning, frying one bug directly, and a handful more from the heat. I swarmed her with the remainder.

There would come a time when I could be _forgiving_ without being _weak_. I wasn't there yet.

And, I had to admit I wasn't all that inclined to be generous with unfamiliar independents. They hadn't been around last time, and I doubted they'd all been victims of cape turnover. Had they given up on the city during the gang war? Had they fled when the sirens sounded?

In the meantime, Velocity had arrived where I'd left Über and Leet. Apparently Über's power let him Houdini his way out of constraints, so now Velocity, a very fit man in a skin-tight costume, was beating up Über, a very fit man who'd escaped my web by leaving his clothes behind.

I considered reactivating Leet's flying camera. A whim inspired by the Regent and Imp in my memories, maybe. I could rationalize it as an attempt to confuse people about my personality... but no. There were too many reasons not to, and it was mean-spirited besides.

As I waited for more heroes to arrive, I let my attention wander over the rest of my range. I had a couple dozen eyes on Trainwreck, but I was counting on the police sirens to keep him at home tonight. The Undersiders. No change. Lung and Oni Lee... accounted for. My range reached into downtown a fair distance, but I walled it off from my conscious attention. If I looked, I'd see, I'd act, and I couldn't afford that yet. I could act with impunity in the north because the major gangs would let me – that wasn't true for downtown.

I'd once lain in ambush, watching the Nine cut through a crowd of innocents, because the alternative was suicide by Slaughterhouse. I'd almost call my current inaction harder. Intellectually, I knew provoking Coil and the Empire would set off events that innocents would get caught up in. _Emotionally_ , it felt like a betrayal of who I was. I could tell myself that was a good thing, that it was change, a more careful road, but when I thought of the people the Empire was probably victimizing _right now_ , it didn't feel convincing. Was that selfish of me? Wasn't it?

I turned my attention away. On a rooftop near the Merchant base, the Protectorate had seen the swarm-clone I'd left there to be found. Time to make my introductions.

* * *

Contrary to my expectations, they took their time. Assault arrived first, then Battery, but they busied themselves with the Merchants rather than approach my clone. Maybe I shouldn't have expected them to confront an unknown power as readily as Armsmaster. I could fly my swarm down, or even create a second body near them... but I'd be yielding to them, in a small way. It didn't fit the narrative, and more importantly, I didn't want to.

I spent my time redistributing bugs until a third cape arrived on a motorcycle. It surprised me when my bugs flew into a scarf and fatigues where I expected a helmet and armor. Some things did change.

Together, the three heroes made their way onto my rooftop, bugs on their shoes and elbows letting me track their movement. I couldn't tell if Assault allowed it or if his power didn't notice. Miss Militia strode toward my clone, her power something small by her side, though I didn't doubt it was a thought away from being a flamethrower.

Meeting people I knew from _before_ was conflicting sometimes. Vague memories of the future told me I'd come to genuinely like this woman, viewed her as an example. In my own experience, there was only a seed of that. The current Miss Militia was still stuck in the system, faithful to it, and no words from an upstart new independent would turn her away. If I was going to try, it'd have to be later.

"Hello?" she called. My bug-hearing was more reliable than I remembered it – I could somewhat make out her apprehension. "May we assume you have a way to communicate?"

"Yes," my bugs answered with a chirp and buzzing. I had my clone step aside, then point an 'arm' at its previous location, where a microphone lay on the roof. Not quite spy equipment, though small enough for the bigger members of my swarm to carry.

Battery backed off a few paces and reached up to her ear. "The bugs speak. They were hiding a small microphone."

A dozen blocks away, with Armsmaster at Squealer's workshop, a moth caught the other end of that conversation. "Controlled from another location then. Try to get him talking."

"Do you have a name we can call you?" Miss Militia asked, smoothly, no obvious sign of acting on an instruction.

It was a question I'd been thinking about. Skitter felt natural. I'd never liked it, but I'd made it mine, owned it. In many ways, I was more her than _Taylor_. But I couldn't go back. Couldn't and shouldn't. It wasn't some big symbolic gesture, but it felt like I should move on.

"Caster," my bugs said. I wasn't happy about accepting a name assigned to me by a power I hated, but choosing something else... frankly, it felt pointless. An impressive name didn't create a reputation, a reputation made a name impressive. Caster had enough possible meanings. Once I had some renown, others would do the explaining for me.

"Caster," Miss Militia repeated. "I'm not familiar with the name. A newcomer, or new to this city?"

I shook my head, fireflies flashing to highlight the movement. Denial or refusal to answer – I'd let them decide.

She waited to see if more information was forthcoming, and quietly exhaled when there wasn't. "I'd like to ask you to accompany us to our base. We're assuming what you did tonight was done with good intentions, but I believe we'd all benefit from a conversation in a more leisurely setting. Cape affairs can be volatile. Particularly for someone with your apparent capabilities."

"No." I wondered how they'd interpret my terse language. Antipathy? A limitation of my bug speech?

A slight pause. "Will you tell us why?"

"Power reasons. Personal reasons." I made some adjustments to my swarm. "And more importantly, I am not done."

Then, like a tidal wave crashing down on my territory, my bugs descended on the unpowered.

The dealers. The pimps. The enforcers. Traffickers of arms and drugs. The scattered gang businesses in my territory, down to the compounds on the very outskirts. Every local cog in the machine called organized crime, sparing only the insignificant. Bugs ambushed criminals in their workplaces, their homes, their beds, chased them out into the streets until web immobilized them. I raided caches, stashes, safes my bugs could open, and left the evidence on full display.

Considering my procedure, I doubted even half of my targets would end up in jail. But this wasn't intended as removal. This was a powerfully-worded suggestion. _Behav_ _e._ It was a warning for those who would carry on the Merchants' work, and a declaration of war against the ABB, hitting them where it hurt more than just Lung's pride. He likely would've challenged a new neighbor anyways; his reputation demanded it.

What this _wasn't_ was Kaiser's problem. There would be no anti-bug alliance in Somer's Rock, and not just because Somer's Rock was now mine.

Back with my clone, the heroes were looking at their phones and listening to the PRT operator. They'd received eight, nine calls already. I imagined they could extrapolate to the hundreds of targets I was hitting.

"Caster, if this is your doing, stop." Miss Militia's words were rapid, her tone... worried perhaps, though it wouldn't be for me. Her power was a shotgun now. "I don't know what you intend to do, but acting on this scale, it demands reprisal. You're making enemies."

"No new ones."

"Wouldn't be so sure of that," Assault said. I didn't have enough experience with him to judge his voice. Could be jovial. Could be threatening.

"Is there a problem?" my bugs buzzed. "I acted at night to avoid scaring innocents. I caused minimal collateral damage, minimized chances of medical complications, and I'm positioned to help if they do happen. All my targets were reported to the police at least six hours ago. I should be within Griffin's extended policies for citizen's arrest on each individual count."

Of course those policies were designed to be flexible – if the PRT wanted to brand me a villain, they could. But they had an excuse if they _didn't_ want to _._ Assassin had pointed me at some articles on vigilante policy, at capes who successfully walked that thin line, and I was hoping I could strike the right chord.

Acting on Assassin's knowledge wasn't entirely in my comfort zone, but I'd cope. She and I were firmly the same person on one count: we wanted people to cooperate. We wanted things to be fair, we wanted a system that functioned, we wanted a world that _ma_ _d_ _e sense_. I'd have to be the world's biggest hypocrite if I couldn't trust a future version of myself at least a little.

Assault turned to Battery. "Dunno about you, but Caster here is sounding an awful lot like a villain who's read up on his rights."

"Her rights," I said.

"That's interesting, but I notice you're not correcting the rest."

In my own body, I exhaled slowly. Hero, villain. Hated those labels. So insufficient, inadequate. _Words_ , Rachel might've said.

"I don't intend to be a villain." Though part of me was treating it as a matter of time. "And I don't intend to give you a reason to consider me one. I'll cooperate. But I don't subscribe to your brand of heroism. If that makes you want to go bug catching, bring a net next time."

Battery stepped toward my microphone, but stopped when Miss Militia raised her hand.

"Vigilantism," she said. Disappointment? "Not many start out as vigilantes, Caster. Most who consider themselves heroes at least start out trying to do the right thing in the right way. What should we make of you skipping past that?"

 _That_ _I stopped believing in_ _a '_ _right' way a long time ago_. Irritating, that one of the most veteran heroes of the country could pretend things were as simple as right and wrong. I kept quiet though. Anything I said would be either pointlessly adversarial or weaken my position. My words wouldn't reach the heroes. I was nothing but one minor event in their very eventful career, a newcomer with a curiously big range and attitude, who wouldn't even meet them mask to mask. I wasn't someone they would listen to.

Not yet. Cycled back to reputation.

"I suppose I've put you in an awkward position by letting you find me. I'm not sure you're willing to just let me walk." Wherever Piggot was, I imagined she was thinking about how it looked if they let 'me' leave without even an attempted arrest. To the spectators in the street, it would look like _tolerance_. I wasn't sure if she was actually going to brand me a villain here and now, but I could nudge her in the other direction. "If it helps, my teammate intends to register our team with the PRT later this week."

"Your team," Miss Militia said. "Would this have anything to do with the people seen flying on the back of a gigantic insect last week?"

"Yes. Though they weren't who I had in mind."

The heroes shared glances between them. I could more or less follow their considerations, and they would mirror those of their Director. One problematic vigilante was easy to brand a villain, and in terms of their precious PR, it might be best if they did. But a small team of three or four new capes? They wouldn't burn that bridge so quickly. Some members might well be more reasonable than me.

Unfortunately for them, the other members were also me.

After some time, Miss Militia spoke. "I don't think you're giving us much choice in the matter."

"No." I started dispersing my clone, the bugs of my 'head' taking flight. "I suppose I'm not."

Then, because they would understand I was giving them a look at my hand, and because it was a card I didn't mind showing, I made a rat dash out of my bug-clone and scurry off with the microphone.


	5. 2-2: Rider

Invisible, intangible, I passed through hallways I wasn't making any less empty. Classrooms flanked me left and right, some leaking the buzz of students, others the muted droning of teachers. I wasn't even breathing and still the stench of cheap detergent assaulted my nose.

 _Winslow_.

There had been a girl in this place, once. A girl trapped in her own life, who could have very easily gone on a rampage, chosen a moment of retribution over a life that could have meant something. A girl who would've gone on to become some aimless villain, never to save a city, never to help save a world. A forgotten footnote in the scheme of things.

If there was a Taylor Hebert who could still become that girl, it was me. _And the others_ _let me_ _return_ _here_. Someone would need to explain that one to me later.

Exhaling something I wasn't sure was air, I sighed. I suspected I knew the reason. Caster had the city. Assassin had the world. Besides attending Taylor – the human one – what was left for Rider? What was left for _me_ , that I could be trusted to not fuck up? I wasn't the warlord. I wasn't the icon. I was the wannabe who wasn't sure she still wanted to be, or even deserved to.

I was careful to keep my thoughts away from my connection to Taylor. To her, I was the friendly one, the kind one. The one she was most comfortable with, because I acted most like _her power._ I did what she wanted me to.

Nothing.

It was all I had. It wasn't enough.

Taylor wouldn't need kid gloves forever. If... _when_ Emma transferred away and something was done about Sophia, she wouldn't need a school guard. Then what? I'd be nothing but a set of powers that wasn't worth using, not if it meant giving up Caster or Assassin's. An irrelevant option, maybe allowed to exist from time to time, out of pity.

That wasn't life. It wasn't even survival.

Fuck. This fucking place – it shifted me back to an older mindset, that state of constant anxiety, always worrying about something, if not the past or present, then the future. Expecting worst case scenarios that shouldn't happen but felt completely likely anyway. Hadn't I escaped from that? Didn't I deserve to?

I needed fresh air, needed _out_. Rooftop? Still not good with rooftops, even with ways to get off them quickly. Away from school? I couldn't leave Taylor – wouldn't. The bullies were guaranteed to try one last stunt before Emma left, and I didn't trust our luck to make it some other day.

While stalled by indecision, the school bell rang. A rumble of feet and shifting chairs grew, then students poured out from every classroom. The wave of bodies washed over me, _t_ _hrough me_ , and I welcomed it as a distraction. I welcomed that here, where I had once worried about every set of eyes, suspected every laugh, I could be invisible.

I looked up from the floor, straightened my back. One more class. Ninety more minutes. No longer a student, enough power to level the building, and still living toward the end of the school day. Pathetic. But at least it was familiar.

* * *

I used the time to check on Emma and Sophia, Julia for good measure, then on Madison back in Taylor's class. I didn't linger in that last classroom. Taylor didn't need the stress of me hovering around, one impulsive action or power mishap away from outing her as a cape. Trusting what we couldn't control would never be our strong point.

Being the nurturing type didn't come natural to me, but it was easy to be kind to someone whose life you lived until yesterday. Like a problem-solving exercise you already had all the answers to, barely even a real interaction. Had Lisa ever felt that way about relationships? Like a complete fraud?

I sighed again. I'd cope. I was the one who gave her comfort. The others were in charge of actually making her life better.

In the end, there was no confrontation with the bullies today, and Taylor made it onto the bus without trouble. I could feel her anxiety ease with each mile put between ourselves and Winslow. Some nervousness remained, but it was eclipsed by anticipation and a hesitant excitement, a feeling I remembered well. Being able to retreat to the safety and privacy of home, where I could throw myself into research, testing and training, weaving my costume. A time I didn't have to think about anything except the fantasy of the hero I'd be with my mask on.

I laughed a little, for the ears of nobody.

When we got home, I headed straight for my old room and stepped forward _sideways_. Black specks converged and settled throughout my body, anchoring it in the same layer of reality my eyes saw into. Awareness flooded my mind at the same time – every bug within a two-block radius, and for each one, a constantly shifting whisper of _possibility_ _._ Instinctive, like finding food and shelter was as natural as unfolding into a flight platform capable of spewing enough venom to put out a small fire.

A little reluctantly, I left my bugs to their bug business. There weren't any fires.

I took a seat on the edge of the bed and lay back. I considered diving into my closet for a change of clothing, and dismissed the idea at about the same time. Taylor was probably getting used to talking to costumes and masks – she might even prefer it. The flaws we saw in the mirror every day didn't suddenly become more flattering without the mirror.

A few discreetly positioned bugs alerted me of Taylor's path up the stairs – a little slow, probably holding a mug of tea. Or _t_ _wo_ mugs, as it turned out. I accepted one, warming my hands through my gloves.

There were no greetings as Taylor shrugged off her backpack and settled at her desk – we'd agreed they weren't going to stop being awkward, and we'd been together since the bus besides. She decorated her desk with some homework before turning her chair to me.

"How was yesterday?"

"Quiet." It wasn't exactly the right word to describe 'our' territory, but it fit my experience. Nothing for me to do, even though I'd been sent to patrol it. In the two days since Caster introduced herself to her corner of the city, it had received more hero and PRT attention than it probably got in a regular year. "Caster cowed the villains and made the heroes work overtime. Maybe calm is a better word. As in before the storm."

I couldn't predict how things would develop like Caster or Assassin could, but I knew things wouldn't stay peaceful. Part of that was experience, but more than that... if the villains didn't make a move, our side would. Doing nothing didn't exist as an option.

"The ABB," Taylor said. She'd studied the cape scene first this time. "Caster said they'd be forced to retaliate?"

Yes. Caster had _said_ so, when she'd argued she should be given more time to cement her position. Did she actually believe Lung was provoked into action so easily, so quickly? Or had she just wanted to exist a little longer?

I didn't want to be uncharitable toward a 'teammate', a future self _my_ actions were ultimately responsible for, but she made it easy. It was in the small, stupid things, like how Assassin volunteered to take Winslow shifts and Caster didn't. How she barely acknowledged me sometimes.

Taylor frowned, perhaps sensing my discomfort as something else. "They're dangerous?"

"They are, but I can handle them." For once, I didn't need to fake confidence.

Lung had been my first stepping stone. The third or fourth too, depending how I counted, though that memory was more distant. Venoms to pave the way for Bitch. Venom again the second time, borrowed, wielded with roach and caterpillar. I didn't know why, but I could feel a shadow of those events inside my power, in the directions and dimensions my bugs could _stretch_.

No. I felt unsure about a lot of things. Fighting Lung with powers I could practically call _anti-Lung_ wasn't one.

Frankly, the aftermath unsettled me more than a potential fight. Removing Lung was how I sparked a gang war last time. Would things really go that much better just because Bakuda wasn't with the ABB yet? It _felt_ obvious, but... I didn't deserve to make that call. If Assassin needed Lung left alone for a little longer, that was what we'd do. I just wished I understood her reasons.

"Anyways," I continued, "I don't think they'll try something this soon. The Protectorate is still focusing their patrols on Caster's area for some reason. The PRT is in the area too. If Lung tries something, we'd have backup within minutes." Even as I spoke the words and believed them, there was a disconnect. A mismatch between what I'd said and some scattered memories, too incoherent to form a bigger picture.

Judging by Taylor's expression and the bond between us, she wasn't entirely convinced, but she seemed to cautiously accept trouble wasn't imminent. "Is the PRT still investigating Caster?"

"She did create a lot of work for them." I could tell she was anxious for the press release or publication that would announce Caster as a new hero. It was progression, something she could look at and feel good about, small as her contribution was for now. I envied that a little. "They should make some kind of announcement after Caster delivers on the meeting she promised. Assassin said she'd go later this week."

"Why hasn't she already?"

That brought me up short. Why hadn't she? I hadn't questioned it – I trusted Assassin to handle the PRT. She hadn't spent two years working around rules and protocols to learn nothing about rules and protocols. _Taylor_ , meanwhile, didn't know about Assassin's history, and she wanted this more than I did. The sooner our team was established and stable, the sooner Caster could sink a few weeks' worth of her power into gear that would let Taylor participate in the field. Or so she believed.

Privately, I wasn't so sure that was more than a dangling carrot. When did we ever have weeks to spare?

I shook my head. "I'm not sure. Assassin probably has her reasons."

Taylor gave me an uncomfortable look. Apologetic, perhaps. She didn't want to ask it of me, but she would. "Do you mind if I swap you out?"

I put down my tea. "No," I lied. "Go ahead."

As a different body began to coalesce to my left, my awareness _shrunk._ Either my power or my bugs – or both – _vanished_ , and gray nothingness encroached on my world. The window outside showed nothing but featureless sky, and even dad's bedroom at the end of the hallway was behind an indoor fog. Suffocating, even after two weeks. Trapped with nothing to do except follow Taylor, slumber inside the fog, or talk with whoever existed on the same frequency – which half of the time was _Caster_. I found her standing in one of the corners, eerily still, her face concealed in the black void of the hood she'd made. I quickly turned away.

Maybe it said more about my own insecurities than about Caster, but I felt a frustrating need to be wary around her. It was hard to forget how overwhelmingly powerful her position was if things ever came to a negotiation. The strength of her range was obvious, her flashy debut put her at the center of the story we'd weave around our 'team', and her tinker power was probably our most versatile problem-solver. It would safeguard Taylor when she inevitably insisted on a more active role.

 _I_ _ndispensable._ In comparison, all I had were overlarge bugs.

I focused back on Taylor and Assassin, who had finished manifesting, had pulled up her mask, and was drinking my tea. Great.

"It's about legitimacy, in a sense," she was explaining. "Caster sent enough mixed signals to make the PRT hesitate about branding her a villain. With every day that passes, more of the public believes Caster _won't_ be branded a villain. And if the heroes already look like they're tolerating us, they might as well tolerate us. Improves my position when I go talk to them."

Taylor set her tea aside as she processed that, frowned. "But she _isn't_ a villain. Why is that even an issue?"

Assassin took a moment to pick her words. "Because simply put, Caster is a bigger problem to the PRT than Lung and Kaiser together."

"What?" Taylor said at the same time I thought it.

"It's not about Caster, or her power. It's about what she did." Assassin waved her stump in a gesture that I didn't think meant anything, even to her. "Heroes and villains fighting each other in costumes is something the public is used to. Background noise if you don't care about capes. But a cape attacking hundreds of unpowered civilians in their homes, because she unilaterally decided they were criminals, all the while mishandling evidence, ignoring proper procedure, outside any form of accountable oversight? That's not background noise, and it's not familiar old heroism either. It's something new and frightening."

Taylor went very still. "Did Caster hurt innocent people?"

 _Did we screw up? Are we villains? Already?_

"She didn't, except maybe indirectly. Addicts lashing out because they lost their suppliers, families of criminals losing critical income, that sort of thing. She was as careful as anyone can be while still doing what she did. The heroes have probably figured that out by now." I exhaled at her words. "But again, it's not about Caster, or even any individual cape. The problem is condoning capes _like_ Caster. It sends a message to every other vigilante in the country."

Assassin sipped her tea. "Responsibility and patience aren't typical cape traits. Sooner rather than later, some well-intending independent is going to punch or blast their way into the home of an innocent family, and they'll damage more than just the door. It could take one incident, it could take ten, but eventually a thought will occur to the public. _We could be next_. It won't be a fear of villains or monsters, it'll be a fear of _parahumans_ , and that's something the PRT exists to prevent."

The problems of vigilantism. It wasn't like the subject was never discussed on TV or online, but... it wasn't _obvious_ , not when it came to capes. Cape vigilantism was different – there were allowances for it in the law, it was something capes could make into their livelihood. New Wave was well-liked and respected, even if you discounted the goodwill generated by Panacea alone.

"With the PRT's ability to suppress and spin, they have leeway to condone a vigilante here or there. Because Caster met the heroes, pretended to have a team, paid lip service to the law, promised to communicate... she made them use that leeway for _us_. If she hadn't, it's entirely possible they'd have made her an example. A vigilante who went too far, now a villain no one should dare imitate."

"But she _helped_."

 _Hadn't she?_

"Some, locally. Compared to the negative impact she could have on the country, the crime she fights in one corner of one city is barely a factor."

"Barely a factor," Taylor sounded almost numb. "That doesn't make any sense. I... I'm not saying you're wrong, but that doesn't sound right. Worse than Kaiser and Lung? They're—"

"—villains who know how the heroes operate. Empire capes don't drag people out of their homes, their unpowered members do. Lung's fire lights up the sky whenever he fights, but he knows to keep his sex slavery in the shadows. And in the PRT's mindset, that makes them less urgent than a noisy vigilante."

Even though nothing in my memories disputed Assassin's words, my gut wanted to deny it. It rebelled against a world _that_ unfair.

"That can't be right. That's... that's screwed up."

"It is," Assassin easily agreed. "On the scale of one city, on the scale of _people_ , it's screwed up. It only makes sense on a national level, and even then, it doesn't work. It's a failing policy that creates more and more cities like ours and considers it acceptable."

"Acceptable?"

"Because change isn't safe and familiar. Because enough people at the top are corrupt, or convinced this is the best they can possibly do." _Or because they_ _know_ _the system doesn't need to last_ _forever,_ _just long enough_. "And Caster's less compromising heroism is a thorn in their side."

Less compromising heroism. It was just a glimpse, but I thought I was starting to see what kind of heroes Caster and Assassin were trying to be. No more band-aids on a festering wound. No more hopeless attempts at healing. _A_ _mputation._ Creating a new state with at least a chance of being healthy.

There would be some blood involved.

Taylor had gone still for a few seconds, mind awhirl, no doubt picturing new ways the world could screw her over. Like I would, if it had been _my_ life and future that was being gambled with. When she spoke, her voice wavered a little, short of breath. "You need to go to the PRT. As soon as possible. Make it absolutely clear we're heroes."

"I'll give it a few more days," Assassin said, annoyingly unconcerned. "Three. Maybe four, depending."

"Two." Then, with more determination, "Two days."

A small pause, followed by a nod from Assassin, and maybe a wisp of a smile. "Alright. Two days. I will be needing the rest of today."

"Okay," came Taylor's immediate agreement. I shut my eyes. The _plan_ had been to let me patrol again, let me _fly,_ but the key word there was let. It wasn't critical, and it didn't need to be me. Sacrificing my time for the others... it wasn't fair, but I understood. I couldn't object. Wouldn't have, if they'd asked.

It bothered me most that they hadn't.

Assassin stood from the bed and stretched. "I should get going then. It's probably useless to tell you not to worry in the meantime, but try. Worst case scenario, Caster gets branded a villain and the rest of us don't. Not ideal, but workable. If it helps, think of it as having one of us undercover."

Some of the tension left Taylor's shoulders, lowering slightly. Perhaps not relieved, but close. _Even in my own time, at my own task, Assassin does better. Why_ _couldn't_ _I have her_ _experience_ _,_ _her_ _point of view_ _?_

It was almost cruel, to be given an outside perspective on what I could be, but wasn't, and probably wouldn't ever become. Illustrating my every inadequacy, overwhelming me with goals too big to even borrow. The city. The world. They didn't fit inside my vision. Most of _me_ was still that girl who would've been happy to catch a drug dealer that first night, some no-name C-lister. Meaningless at the level Caster and Assassin operated on, the scale they confronted me with every time they spoke.

I didn't function like this. I needed _something_. A goal, a purpose, something I could call mine.

I stared down at my gloved palms, their silk and chitin.

 _And_ _m_ _aybe, just maybe,_ _I don't_ _want_ _that_ _something_ _to be_ this _anymore._


	6. 2-3: Assassin

"One step closer and I'll consider myself under attack," I remarked to the empty rooftop behind me.

It didn't reply.

 _Alright then._ I turned my attention back to the building on the opposite side of the street, to the conversations within, marginally more interesting now than five seconds ago. Recalling capes from other parts of the city, just in case. Didn't seem like I'd be welcomed inside anytime soon.

I sighed. I'd never been good with stakeouts, or things like them, and still wasn't. Even when I had a whole life instead of a third, I'd wanted to use my time efficiently, get things _done_. No matter how much information I let in, just standing around somewhere felt like inaction, and inaction meant room for thoughts to wander. Not something the past me had been able to afford.

Behind my mask, I allowed myself to grimace. Even now, it was still unintuitive to drop my guard _._ One apocalyptic fight didn't erase a year and a half of killing my emotions with discipline and disconnection. Of repressing what I _wanted_ to do in favor of what needed to be done. Of sacrificing my time, my friends, my people, my _identity_ _,_ all for a single-digit percent chance at stopping the end of the world, which I failed, and to reconnect with my dad, who had been among the earliest casualties.

 _So stupid._

I tugged at my cloak with my good arm, drawing it closer around me. As much as the memories _hurt,_ as much as my thoughts inevitably veered to guilt and regret, I needed them. They kept me from sliding back into older mindsets, especially in familiar situations, working toward familiar goals. My meeting today was like that. Or maybe _confrontation_ was more accurate. I'd tried making an appointment, but I hadn't exactly been invited.

Behind me, a body that didn't exist lifted its foot.

I moved the same instant, already forming my fields – one just past the edge of the rooftop, its pair inside the building ahead. It took a few seconds before they connected and became portals, but I reached them an instant after they did.

A step off the rooftop dropped me into the front hall of Accord's mansion.

* * *

The Victorian-style mansion was very _Accord_ , within and without, even if it wasn't his main headquarters. On the surface, it was dignified, oozing old world charm – the exterior maintained to perfection, the interior timelessly elegant. _Beneath_ the surface, behind wallpaper, under the flooring, and inside hand-crafted furniture, I felt intricate mechanisms operating dart launchers, spears, spike pits, pendulum blades, guillotines, explosives, nerve gas, even a room where the walls could close in and crush you, accompanied by an incinerator to minimize the mess. Completely impractical, some of it, but then this was Accord's idea of a hobby.

I'd gotten the basic picture as soon as I got inside two thousand feet of the estate, but I was getting into the habit of looking with my own eyes too, if only to make my powers a little less obvious. I studied the hallway in front of me, then glanced at the silver tray near the door. My costume didn't have shoes to take off. Would Accord take offense... of course he would.

Did I care?

If I was Skitter, I would've seen courtesy as a display of weakness, harming my position in the negotiations to come. A rationalization, maybe, to protect a confidence built on fear and intimidation. If I was Weaver... I still couldn't see myself humoring a villain's neuroses. In a lot of ways, my time as a hero had been an extension of my time as a warlord. A foundation of pride, upholding the heartless pursuit of a greater goal. Similar pattern, different color.

But me?

Screw it. I wouldn't give a fuck. I'd resolved to be _Taylor_ again, and I was tired of making enemies. His house, his rules. _I_ _can_ _be me without being weak._

A portal into a closet six blocks south got me a pair of unused slippers. With courtesy wrapped snugly around my feet, I strode forward.

* * *

I navigated through hallways, passing libraries and sitting rooms, meandering left and right to avoid traps that might get past my costume. The rooms I passed weren't all empty – I was aware of a man and two women, all in masks and formal wear. Citrine was one, with her yellow gown and gemstones. Lizardtail was another, though not the Lizardtail I'd met – the reptilian mask was different, and so was the person underneath. The third was a woman in a gray dress with a snake motif. Serpentine.

Not a concern. I had no illusions I could outmaneuver a Thinker like Accord forever – especially not in a place designed for confrontation, with eight Ambassadors in the building alone – but considering he didn't know my powers, one of which let me spy on the office he was giving instructions from? I'd manage.

I turned a corner into an almost empty room, centered around a staircase leading up to the second floor. One of the Ambassadors stood guard in front of it, wearing a green gown, adorned with a bronze brooch shaped like an ornate key. If it was a reference, I didn't get it – didn't fit her power. Two swords hung off her hip, one larger than the other. Those _did_ fit her power.

"You've not been invited," she told me, politely indifferent. "For the sake of formality, will you state your business before we proceed?" With one finger resting on her smaller sword, it rose from its sheath. Straight and slender, no guard.

 _Morglay,_ Accord called her. She had a power that reminded me of Rune's, though more compact. She stored telekinesis in objects, reinforcing them, manipulating them, and could choose how that telekinesis interacted with whatever she struck. In her hands, her sword could carve through stone, slap aside cars, pulverize, all without chipping the blade in the slightest. Her reinforcement didn't reach an inviolable level, but to anything without an exotic brute rating, she might as well be swinging a sword-shaped Siberian.

I sighed. If everyone would just cooperate, I'd never fight another human in my life – just the monsters, in human skin or not. But there was only so far this world would let me go with that. "Your boss refuses meeting me until he knows who he's dealing with. I'd rather not wait until he discovers there's nothing to find."

I would've been less forceful, maybe, if Taylor hadn't accelerated my schedule. An inconvenience I couldn't feel too annoyed about – it was a relief to know I wasn't walking all over her. Bad memories of my Wards aside, we needed Taylor to keep wanting to be involved. Capes who avoided conflict got rusty, and speaking as her power, I wasn't ready to find out what that would do to me.

"I see. I hope you weren't expecting Accord to invite you to his office."

"No." I calmly shook my head. With my good left hand, I drew a knife from a pocket. Like my coat, it had a spark of Caster's power inside it – not enough to _do_ anything, but it bridged a gap, letting me bring it when my body became incorporeal. Its weight in my hand alleviated the nagging feeling I was still missing things, _incomplete,_ just a little.

Maybe because it was a butter knife. It _was_ just something Caster grabbed from a drawer while experimenting.

"Like I said, he won't meet me until he has more information. I expect him to investigate."

In his office, Accord spoke two words. Mechanisms moved, muscles tensed. My knife snaked into the path of two poisoned darts, the motion twisting my body out of the curving path of Morglay's telekinetically launched sword. A third dart embedded itself harmlessly in my armor.

I'd come selling information, and Accord was in the market. It just happened that the transaction was shaped like violence. _Capes._

 _Three in the basement,_ _f_ _our on the ground floor,_ _Morglay_ _follows_ _either way_ _._ _Othello with Accord, mirror body unaccounted for._ _No_ _traps_ _in the basement._

When the floor dropped out from beneath my feet, I let myself fall.

* * *

Just as my portals weren't Doormaker's, my clairvoyance wasn't that of his partner. At the fringe of my range, they were comparable. Sight, sound. But the closer to my body, the more detail it gave me. Vibrations in the air, temperature, texture, scent, then taste. Like having bugs in every available space, on every surface, inside every object.

Still falling, I lowered all of the walls between me and that storm of information, subsuming the pale senses of my body. People, place, powers, _me_ – now elements of data, weaving a hurricane. There was a tune to it, steady while I stayed in the eye.

I formed fields, pulled the dart from my armor, then flung it at an incoming anomaly in gravity. One of the Ambassadors, a haze visible only through the light he distorted. _Tempest_. Flight and protection in his breaker form, with a gravity slam when it expired, stronger the longer he'd been in it. Powerful, but it had a hair trigger – a small dart could set it off, and did.

Even at a distance, the gravity discharge accelerated my fall. No matter. Accord's basement was a massive space, larger than the house itself, with supporting pillars placed at exacting intervals. It was tall enough, and I'd been quick enough.

I fell into my portal, exiting another I'd placed at a ninety degree angle. One moment I was crashing down, the next I was skidding over the ground, on my feet and sprinting at an Ambassador in a black gown. The spatial awareness my power gave me prevented any disorientation.

The woman – _Darkstar –_ threw up a barrage of black lights, moving slowly in my direction. Two other Ambassadors made their moves at the same time. _S_ _and and stone._

Shut-eye, a suited man in a beige dress shirt, could manifest a depression of sand anywhere in his sight, a great swirling whirlpool, with the ability to imprison anything it trapped inside a pocket dimension. Serpentine grew pillars out of existing stone, fast enough to break bone, and she could aim it through a long-range Thinker power.

I traced the projectiles, felt the concrete floor sink and granulate, saw distortions take hold on one of the structural pillars. My opponents were moving, which changed the storm, which shifted the eye. Just had to stay inside. Keep the tune steady.

Fields. Not enough time for them to connect and become portals. So platforms.

I slid under a stone spear, onto a gold hexagon. Two steps per platform, dismissing and creating new pairs for more distance, weaving through a field of black stars. I landed when I passed the whirlpool, turned, ran at my original target. Shut-eye couldn't manifest a new sinkhole immediately. While I didn't need them, I assigned a fraction of my attention to placing fields as obstructions.

In Accord's strategy, Darkstar fit with both the shakers who slowed and restricted, and the decisive powers that ended fights. She could riddle the air with hundreds of lights, technically projectiles, though slow enough I wouldn't call her a blaster. One hit would leave anyone crawling, gasping for air. If she hit someone who was already like that, they didn't get back up.

I didn't know if her power would count weapons as part of the body. So I got closer.

The smallest bubble of my clairvoyance was unlike the others. It didn't report clear, intelligible information. It gave me fragments, vague impressions, shards of images that didn't translate correctly, because even as I was now, I was too human. It didn't reach very far, and unlike the other senses, the range it had didn't fluctuate. Not an inch.

 _Fifteen point nine-eight feet_.

Darkstar's power would not, in fact, treat weapons as part of the body. I carved through her two-hit-kill field with my butter knife, parried her strikes, found her stomach with a slipper-clad foot. The kick knocked her onto one of my fields. She didn't manage to roll off before it became a portal.

One down. Or removed long enough she shouldn't be a factor, stuck in a locked room elsewhere in Accord's mansion.

As I sidestepped another stone spear, I turned my attention to the Ambassadors who'd been trying to get to me – Tempest, Morglay, Lizardtail. They were quickly learning that however fast they ran was also the speed with which they'd headbutt my forcefields. In Tempest's case, wasting his gravity charge. It was slowing down the fight, made it harder for them to make their numbers count.

I had plenty of complaints about my fields. Always six foot across, always hexagons. They took some time to become proper portals, and as forcefields, they weren't sharp, couldn't move, didn't bisect anything living or lifeless. Hated the color. Still, I'd admit you could do a lot with instant forcefields anywhere.

I placed a field in front of me, its pair an inch in front of Shut-eye, and drew my fist back for a punch. Movement in hair on skin over muscle – he'd retreat. I dismissed my fields and recreated them horizontally, tripping both him and Lizardtail upstairs. More than one Ambassador would be nursing bruised shins tonight.

Morglay had made it down to the basement floor, hanging from her floating greatsword. She'd been careful so far, keenly aware she was the weak point to the nigh-invulnerable weapon she wielded. A caution she abandoned when her feet were planted firmly on the ground. Her weapon propelled her at me, faster than I could run. I created a field an inch from her stomach.

She'd been prepared to take the hit. Even with a field knocking the wind out of her, she managed to launch her sword at me, spinning it in a wild tumble. Two gold shields reformed, layered in front of me.

Morglay's greatsword crashed into my fields hilt-first and still shattered the first into a thousand golden crumbs. The second held. A leftover scrap of telekinesis sent the sword skidding across the ground, back to its owner.

Fuck. I didn't let myself react, but I _felt_ it when my field broke. The hollow feeling of a skipped heartbeat, a sting in my head, wetness inside my nose. _Pain_ , when my body was such a minuscule part of my perception? I sharply inhaled and swallowed – my power tasted the blood more than my tongue did. Some kind of backlash. I checked my connection to Taylor. No distress. I could tell she noticed _something_ , though.

Would need to avoid breaking fields. With that condition, that new information and uncertainty, the eye of the storm shrunk. It wasn't any form of precog, just processing, but I could foresee myself struggling down the line. Needed to simplify.

One field in front of me. Tempest and Shut-eye looked around, searching for the other side; Accord had informed them I only made pairs. A second's worth of distraction.

 _L_ _ooking in the wrong place._ The other side was in a storeroom five blocks east, facing a weapon rack. I pocketed my knife, reached through, withdrew a small but loaded handgun. Dismiss fields, replace.

One shot at nothing to get a feel for the bullet, map the trajectory. A second to knock Tempest out of his breaker state, sending him tumbling into a field that just turned portal, joining Darkstar. A third shot to take out one of the surveillance cameras near the ceiling, just to make a point. Not a fluke, even firing with just one hand.

I aimed the gun at Shut-eye, Morglay, then tossed it aside and drew my knife again. It sent the better message.

A mental step back let me take in the whole situation. Shut-eye, seconds away from creating a new whirlpool, not an issue. Morglay, still catching her breath, recharging her weapon. Dangerous, but she knew I could both dodge and block her. Darkstar and Tempest, removed from the field. Citrine was upstairs – the other shakers weren't slowing me down enough, so Accord hadn't even tried sending her in. Serpentine was with her, and while her stone snakes hadn't let up, I barely needed to pay attention to them at this point. Othello's mirror body was the one power I couldn't anticipate at range, but I'd shown I could detect it back on the rooftop.

Accord bought good powers. He gave them to decent enough fighters. All the same, I could see why the Nine had torn through them with ease.

I kicked off one of my slippers, noted how it tumbled. Lizardtail finally made it to the basement, swinging open the door at the top of the stairs, great arcs of electricity surging around his hands. He aimed down toward me, the crackles of his lightning intensifying.

Wasted intimidation. Sixteen feet of power sense wasn't much, but like the rest, it was a range that ignored obstructions and reached through portals. I hadn't gone into this blind.

Lizardtail turned away from me at the last second, hurling balls of lightning at his teammates. I was already moving, already deploying fields. A kick sent my remaining slipper into one of the blasts. I caught the other with a portal, redirecting it into my body.

The Lizardtail I'd met had been a healer. His predecessor was less one-dimensional, but still a support cape at his core. Minor boosted strength and stamina, strikes imbued with a weak electric shock, and he could fire balls of lightning that granted that same package to others, with a more powerful effect on dead bodies. Revival so long as the body was still warm.

It tingled. I opened and closed my fist, sparks of electricity running between my fingers. In his office, Accord grit his teeth.

Fields around the stairs blocked Lizardtail from another attempt at aid. I calmly walked toward Shut-eye and Morglay. Their teammate had arrived, but the one reinforced was _me_. Instead of sidestepping, I decapitated one of Serpentine's concrete snakes with an electrified kick. Attacking morale.

 _Drive the_ _point_ _home_. I waggled my butter knife. _I_ had been playing the cape game, respecting the code. _They_ had come at me no holds barred, because not only was my death an acceptable outcome, Lizardtail's power let them kill first and ask questions later.

In his office, Accord pushed a button and dropped his chair into an evacuation slide. What?

I released Lizardtail to throw up a field at the bottom of the slide. This whole thing was pointless if Accord just left. Nothing should've given him the impression he was in danger.

When the portal deposited him back into his office, he didn't seem surprised. Testing me? Thinking on it, the slide wasn't one of his serious getaways. Maybe he just wanted to see if I'd place him in an infinite slide loop. Would it mean anything to him that I didn't?

Accord spoke two words again, different ones.

The Ambassadors stood down.

* * *

Height translated to presence. If people like Defiant and Narwhal affirmed that statement, Accord proved it wrong. He wasn't much taller than the average twelve-year-old, the metal of his mask was complicated rather than intimidating, he wasn't armored in anything but formal dignity, and _still_ my power heard the room revolve around him.

He didn't offer refreshments.

We sat in his office for a while, on opposite sides of his desk, sharing silent contemplation. I imagined he thought it'd make me nervous, or maybe he just wanted to see how I'd react, _if_ I would. I didn't fidget. I had my power, my distractions, my cloak, and not knowing what to do with my hands was half the issue it had ever been.

I waited for him to speak, because I honestly wasn't sure how this would go. I had information, some experience, but not to the point I could call Accord predictable. We met once. As an ally to the Undersiders, he hadn't lasted a month.

He'd once told me we were very similar people. I hadn't agreed as Skitter and didn't agree now, but on a level, I could see why he believed it, and it gave me a way to frame this situation. Outwardly calm, collected, a leader who balanced fear with fairness, ruthless with reasonable. _Highly_ personal ideas of fair and reasonable, no doubt. Him and me both.

It came down to that balance. Would he be ruthless, or had I done enough to make him reasonable? Insults on one side of the scale – inviting myself, _winning._ On the other side, the little courtesies, and _me_. The fight had given me value, had made me dangerous, and I was throwing those coins on the scale. I'd come here needing something. He could make leverage his price.

As with fighting, this world wasn't so kind I could stop spending myself.

Altogether, I was fairly confident Accord would at least hear me out. He was sitting within sixteen feet of me, and unlike the Ambassadors, his connection to his passenger was _strong_. What passed through it didn't feel like anger. Incessant ticking, though quiet, like putting a watch to your ear.

When Accord finally spoke, his voice was strained nonetheless. "I've decided to do you the exceptional courtesy of letting you explain yourself."

More adversarial than I was expecting. I dialed back my expectations; this wasn't the Accord I'd met. Here and now, he was in his own domain, at the height of his power. His reputation was essential, his unyielding nature integral to it. "I imposed on you prematurely due to... circumstances that restrict me. I regret not being able to be more specific than I was in my message."

The ticking replaced itself with deafening church bells. A muscle twitched toward a button.

With self-control visible in the shifting layers of his mask, Accord took a deep breath. "In the same message you request an invitation, you name yourself Assassin. You know who I am, even though I received no word of anyone asking. You intrude on a place that isn't yours to be in, you _take_ my time in hopes of being _given_ more, you flout manners for the opportunity to flaunt them. It's that _dissonance_ I'm asking about, understand?"

I violently restrained my first instinct for dealing with condescending villains – pushing back, going on the offensive somehow. As Skitter or Weaver, I would've had options. As 'Assassin', all I had right now was _threat,_ and I'd lose if I used it, or win in a way that wasn't worth winning. I'd had enough of that last time.

I had to remind myself Accord wasn't an enemy. He was someone who wasn't an ally yet. This conversation, it wasn't something I needed to _win_. The goal was to go home tonight feeling like I'd _won_. Completely different things.

 _Me and not weak._

"I accepted this name with an intention to make it mine, craft it into something that isn't just associated with death and threat. I realize I'm not there yet." I pressed on when Accord didn't respond, "To this world, I'm not who I think I am, and to _me,_ I'm not yet the person I intend to become. Call it liminality. There's dissonance because I'm dissonant, and I need a foundation to start fixing that. It's a large part of why I approached you."

"Presumptuous."

"I won't deny there's an arrogance to it." Let him imagine that was my particular brand of madness. Self-aware arrogance was tame as far as cape quirks went.

Long seconds passed. "Liminality, was it? You would argue your... problematic state is transitory. Something you're attempting to correct."

I nodded.

A longer pause, then, with a _click,_ the clockwork shifted. Ticking slower. "Within the next twenty-four hours, I expect fifty thousand dollars delivered to this location, as restitution."

"Okay." Had Accord deduced something about my resources to arrive at that sum, or did he just base it on how trivial theft was with my powers?

Accord raised a finger. "I'd be remiss if I led you to believe my forgiveness can be _purchased_ , Assassin. The money is for damages and my time. For the insult, you will perform one task for me."

Pushing for more because I accepted his fine too easily? No, didn't matter. Owing him a favor wasn't a bad thing. He'd want to spend it before any betrayal.

"I have conditions," I said. Had to push back some, or it'd set a tone, lose any chance of respect. "Short term work only, twelve hours or less. Nothing public. My powers aren't associated with crime or villainy, and I intend to keep it that way. No harming innocents. No drugs. No murder."

"Despite the name?" Accord leaned forward on his desk. Testing me.

"Despite it. I have the resolve, but if a cape with my powers starts killing regularly... in the long term, it would cause more problems than it solves."

"Indeed. Hm." Approval? "I can assume your demonstration against my Ambassadors was not some limited period of heightened power?"

"It wasn't."

"Then I accede to your conditions." Accord took a fountain pen from his desk and wrote my conditions on a pad of paper, in flowing handwriting neat enough to call calligraphy. "Before you leave today, you will provide me with two different ways of contacting you."

"I intended to."

"Good." Accord stood from his chair and held out his hand. "I'm pleased we were able to balance matters."

I looked at his hand. His right. With my left arm, I lifted up my cloak.

Accord's mask reconfigured into a grimace. "Ah. I suspected, but... a shame. Your efforts to hide it from my sight are appreciated."

That... wasn't actually intended. Had I kept my stump hidden throughout the fight? Fuck. Apparently hiding signs of weakness was so ingrained I didn't even think about it anymore. It was a happy accident here and now, but I wasn't sure about what it implied about my ability to change.

"Is healing one of the things you were hoping to request from me?" Accord continued, surprising me a little. I'd half expected him to suggest balancing me by taking a saw to the other side. "Old injuries are often an issue for such powers."

The idea was tempting – I _did_ share a city with Panacea – but I needed to know more about how my body functioned first. I could make do with fields in the meantime. "No, though I appreciate the offer. I'm pursuing some options myself."

"Very well," Accord said, clearly reluctant he had to leave a flaw uncorrected. "Then tell me, what can I do for you?"

I drew a note from a pocket. He gave it a glance over and immediately began transcribing – writing with my left wasn't anything I'd willingly write home about, or anywhere.

The items listed on the note were... not unimportant, but not the full breadth of what I'd gone to Accord for. As a group, we had power, were building reputation. We had money and ways to get more. What we lacked were _connections_. I had plenty of doubts about going to Accord for them, but in terms of connections, he was the biggest nearby fish that wasn't Coil. The ties to Cauldron were worrying, but Accord had no reason to _volunteer_ me to them, and if Cauldron was already interested, it wasn't like they really needed to go through Accord.

All complicated considerations aside, I needed someone competent, and Accord was a Thinker whose work had earned Tattletale's – probably grudging – respect. I couldn't think of higher praise.

Accord finished transcribing my list, wiped his pen, then tapped it on his desk. "Regarding the last requirement of the first item... I cannot guarantee anything, you understand. It wouldn't be feasible to account for every eventuality. Impossible, in this case."

"It's enough if you can get me reasonable doubt. I have some minor talent at concealment myself."

"Would that be the reason you've not listed a discreet plastic surgeon?"

"I'll leave it to your imagination."

He made an additional note. "And what forms of payment did you envision, should I arrange these items for you?"

"Cash or work. I can also offer silk clothing." I waved my hand over my costume. "Black widow silk, though more durable than that due to a quirk of the manufacturing. You'll understand if I don't share the specifics of a teammate's power. I _can_ tell you it wouldn't need special maintenance."

Accord eyed the silk, mild interest in body and mind. "Eighty thousand dollars and one suit of quality equal to yours, to my exact specifications." Eighty thousand? It wasn't a sum I couldn't pay, but combined with the fifty he already expected, it'd wipe out most of the funds Caster had collected. "As an alternate offer, the suit, twenty thousand dollars, and one hour and fifty minutes of your service, performing two tasks under my instruction immediately after this meeting."

"What tasks?"

Accord slid open a drawer, smooth enough human hearing wouldn't hear it. From it he withdrew two folders and put them on the desk, taking a moment to ensure even spacing and right angles. He indicated each in turn. "Combat, theft."

The first contained familiar faces – masks. An obvious test, probably to see how I fared against more resilient opponents, or ones shaped less human. I'd actually forgotten they were in Boston at this point. No real objections.

The second folder was more interesting. A file I'd read more than once as Weaver. Considering the grief caused by his power in the wrong hands last time, I'd been meaning to address him anyways.

I looked at Accord and nodded. "Let's talk details."

* * *

An hour and fifty-five minutes later, I left Boston behind me, running through portal after portal, feeling strangely light. I'd picked up some additional worries, but today had been a step forward. _P_ _rogression_.

While I still felt the weight of _too many_ _things_ _to do_ , I'd dealt with _not enough_ _things_ before, and that had been worse. Every day preparing, every day feeling less prepared. It was arrogant, it was selfish, but I felt reassured to have a role in the things to come. A direction. Part of me was tired of it all, but I still wanted to help, was still a proud person at heart, and I was capable of being monstrous. Three very different parts of me that all thought I was better than sitting on the sidelines.

But maybe this time, knowing what was coming, I wouldn't lose sight of the little things. To be a teammate and not a taskmaster. To do the good guy thing _right_ , or as right as I could without betraying who I was and wanted to be. Caster might say I was prioritizing poorly, but frankly, that was another thing I would allow myself to not give a fuck about. If I was going to be _me_ again, I was going to be selfish. A more human selfish, now.

I was going to do this in a way that would let me live with myself afterward. Other selves included.

It shouldn't be too much to ask.


	7. Taylor guide

**Taylor**

 _What use was escapism, if the world I was escaping to was muddled with the people and things I was trying to avoid?_

A girl who, after weeks of dreams, became aware of an energy in the back of her mind. Weeks later still, she finally met her sentient power, and now works toward a fantasy of becoming a hero alongside it. While out of her depth, ignorance shields her from the worst of it, and she keeps herself distracted with preparation both mental and physical. She remains wary of Assassin's interference in her civilian problems.

Taylor wears no costume. She hopes Caster will make hers less edgy.

Her power grants her an energy she distributes to four different aspects. Her current capacity allows the manifestation of one, with a narrow margin. She has not observed any growth.

* * *

 **Rider**

 _I've probably done more damage than good, by trying to help others._

A girl taken from the dawn of her cape career, burdened by knowledge of what her actions would eventually cause. While she initially tried to treat her current existence as an escape, the realities of her situation proved inescapable. She still attends school, is wrapped up in goals she struggles to grasp, and shares a zero-sum existence with more proactive versions of herself. Torn between herself and things overwhelmingly bigger, she finds herself adrift.

Rider wears a costume of black silk and mottled black-and-gray armor. It is elegant but simple, with no additional pieces.

She has been seen to control and empower a beetle, transforming it into a car-sized monstrosity, while claiming to control the outcome to an extent.

* * *

 **Caster**

 _I didn't like it, but I'd do it._

A young woman taken from the height of her career in one sense, and the rock bottom in another. While still adjusting on many levels, there are problems before her and solutions in her hands – she has direction. Protect those she loves. Save the world. She'd already resolved to spend herself for the greater good; that hasn't changed now. Her limited existence remains a source of immense frustration, but she takes comfort from the fact her power might be able to work around that problem, eventually. Fucking tinkers.

Caster wears a costume of black silk and mottled black-and-gray armor, with sharper edges and lines than Rider's. Small claws glint at the fingertips of her gloves. Spiders lurk beneath a ragged half-dress and shawl.

Has been seen controlling bugs, a power that expands while remaining stationary, gaining either range or (unpredictable) versatility each hour. Her ability to create items has been hinted at in the story, and she has been seen wearing a hood imbued with an effect reminiscent of an old teammate.

* * *

 **Assassin**

 _I'd change it all in a heartbeat._

A young woman who lived for her mission, nearly broke when she failed it, and ultimately betrayed what she stood for, becoming monstrous. Existing as she does now, a pale shadow of a second chance? It's more than she deserves. She sublimates regret into resolve and marches forward, determined to tread a different path this time. She once began her journey with a mix of selfishness and good intentions, and she returns to that now, older, more skilled, more aware of who she is and where she's going. Perhaps it'll even work out this time. She was always good at self-delusion.

Assassin wears a costume of black silk and white armor, with the same additions as Caster, though with cleaner lines and fewer edges. Her right arm ends at the elbow. She moves with unimpaired ease.

Has been seen manifesting paired gold hexagons, as tall as she is, instant forcefields that quickly transition into single-sided portals. She also possesses a fluctuating six-block clairvoyance, extended by her portals, more powerful at close range. It provides her a wealth of information applicable to both combat and negotiation.


	8. Interlude: Colin

Colin drove through streets that hadn't looked this good in over a decade, and scowled.

These parts had always teemed with vermin, and the city's newest vigilante had transformed that army into labor. Grime had been scoured from buildings, weeds no longer sprouted from cracked concrete. Graffiti had paled or disappeared, and something similar had been done to the ubiquitous stains from water damage and rot. For once, the streets weren't an obstacle course of sludge and garbage.

He balled his fists around his bike's handlebars. It even _smelled_ better – ocean salt. 'Caster's territory'. It was a bad joke.

 _Superficial,_ _all of it._ A thin veneer easily seen past by anyone who cared to look. This... mockery of improvement? It wasn't repair, hell, it wasn't even maintenance. It was a PR-friendly _gang tag_. Symbolic, he was sure. If something _look_ _ed_ better, it was tempting to believe it actually was.

It fit a vigilante. No matter how good their actions looked, in the long term, they only accelerated the erosion.

Colin's career had been too long to still believe vigilantes fixed anything. Sooner or later, they bit off more than they could chew, ran into the wrong power, and they left behind chaos – chaos the _Protectorate_ would have to wrangle back into order. Much like he was doing now, keeping the peace in Caster's area. Running _damage control_ for a damned vigilante with more power than foresight. It was necessary, but no matter how he looked at it, this wasn't where he was most useful.

At least Piggot had approved his request to attend the meeting Caster's teammate was supposedly having with the PRT today. Even if nothing came of it, investigation was at least productive.

Colin turned south onto Lord street, ground his teeth when the buildings around him still showed signs of Caster's claim.

He wasn't blind, and distaste didn't make him incapable of objective investigation. He could admit there was _some_ foresight to Caster's actions – the way she'd avoided retaliation despite doing as much as she had was proof enough. Her actions were deliberate, calculated, and while there wasn't a chance in hell her motives were selfless, she could've caused bigger problems. Provoking the major gangs would've been catastrophic.

But in its own way, that was something he could resent too. So much power, and she'd chosen to fight crime where it wouldn't fight back. She'd chosen to do what was _easy_ , not what was hard.

Good things came from sacrifice, and her brand of vigilantism only took – even from _him_. How many inhabitants of the city looked at Caster's recklessness and wondered why he and his Protectorate hadn't done the same things sooner? Like it was that fucking simple.

They'd learn eventually. He just wished they'd remember.

* * *

Colin was still in a foul mood when he pulled into the PRT's parking lot. His patrol had ran the planned course, but the cape had shown up early. An improvised text feed in his helmet was updating him on what he'd missed.

At 6:47 PM, a woman in costume had stepped out of an alley, casually walked up to the front entrance of the PRT building, where she'd obeyed the officers stationed in the lobby without objection. After proving she had powers – some kind of portal-forcefield – she'd been escorted to one of the interview rooms, where she was currently behaving herself.

A more visible entrance than the PRT would've instructed her to make, likely calculated. At least she'd refrained from idiotic power stunts or problematic statements to civilians.

Colin entered the side entrance of the building and moved toward the elevators, passing security checkpoints and biometric scanners with resigned ease. Minor delays were utilized double-checking his suit – it'd been a while since he used this version, and his footsteps were obviously too loud. Dampeners still calibrated to autumn conditions. Not something he could adjust without opening up the armor, but there were software settings that could compensate. Easily managed during the elevator trip two floors down.

A chrome steel hallway took him to his destination, a narrow room that observed an interview chamber through a one-way mirror. He wasn't the first one there. A silver-and-gray suit of armor greeted him as he entered.

"Armsmaster, sir. Good to see you."

"Gallant." Colin gave the lad a nod. Good. Piggot was on the same page about needing information on these independents. He turned to the ongoing interview inside, to the cape who sat opposite to a PRT employee. Her costume was black and white in equal measure, leanings to heroic convention in the lines and overall shape. Light and practical armor – and of higher quality than a complete newcomer should be able to gather. What drew his attention more, though, was what her costume _didn't_ cover. Her tall stature, straight black hair down to her shoulders, and a right arm that ended just below the elbow.

The PRT didn't aggressively pursue civilian identities without abundant cause, but when a cape volunteered this many clues... better to have and not need. He'd talk to Piggot about it later.

"It's my sincere recommendation that you consider another option," the PRT employee said, a red-haired woman in suit. She sounded exasperated – an argument? "It's for your own sake, too. Consider how the public would view you."

"I'm not worried." No identifiable accent. "I think even the public would agree some things need killing."

"If it's a slayer-of-monsters theme you're going for, there are available alternatives. Less upsetting alternatives."

"I considered some. They didn't feel right. So no, thank you. You can consider it poor taste."

Colin spoke to Gallant without averting his eyes, "What is she calling herself?"

"Assassin, sir. Despite how the conversation sounds, she's not very attached to it."

There was something more, then, some kind of theme or message. No particular connection to her teammate's moniker. It could refer to her power, but the report called her power 'brightly Scion-gold'. With that kind of aesthetic, assassination wasn't the obvious association. So why call attention to lethal potential?

Already, there was a nagging feeling he was overlooking something.

"What else did I miss?"

Gallant glanced down at the notes he held – written in cipher, Colin noticed. It could stand to be more complex, but good lad. Caster was almost definitely looking in.

"She said she's part of a team of four. Assassin, Caster, Rider, and a fourth who hasn't picked a name. A non-combatant member for the time being, apparently. Seemed truthful."

Colin nodded. Good enough for now – he'd run the recordings through analyses later. He scratched his beard, guarding his mouth from lip-reading at the same time. "Your power?"

"I'm seeing a lot of confidence, sir. The kind you don't get without a lot of experience or having more than a few aces up your sleeve. The only time it wavered a little was when she named her team. They're calling themselves the Servants."

Colin frowned. Whose servants? The public? The name wasn't bad, but it was humble, when Caster's actions and demeanor were the furthest thing from it. Another piece of the puzzle – he could think about its place later.

"Right now, she's feeling... conflicted about something that's close to fondness. I'm sorry I can't be more specific. It's distracting her from the conversation."

In the interview room, the discussion about Assassin's name was winding down – it seemed she would be keeping it. Just as well. If she wanted to shoot herself in the foot, by all means.

"Very well," the PRT employee said, resigned. "I'll move on to the main topic. Are you intending to formally register your team with the PRT today? You were unclear when you made your appointment."

Assassin shook her head. "Not in the official sense, not yet. No team with Caster on it would qualify for the benefits, and we're not interested in giving up our civilian identities for now. I'm here as a show of good faith, and to make an offer you'll refuse."

A small pause. "I will of course hear it, though if I may, it sounds like you're not giving our organization much of a chance."

Assassin gave a dismissive wave with her good arm. "Not my intention. I only meant to say I understand your position." After a guarded nod from the PRT employee, she continued, "My team is looking to arrange, legally, a base in this city. We also intend to monetize our powers in the near future. We could use someone familiar with the relevant legislation."

 _The tens of thousands dollars looted by Caster isn't enough for them?_ The thought began rhetorical, but Colin realized it shouldn't be. It said something that they were trying to secure a more sustainable source of income. Arrogance, primarily.

"And," the red-haired PRT employee said, "if I understand you correctly, you're suggesting that person could be provided by the PRT. You want to be assigned a liaison?"

"It would serve mutual goals. We'd exchange information, coordinate, cooperate. The PRT would have some oversight. Frankly, as much as we'll ever accept."

"That's... certainly unconventional. You realize that level of involvement would still require you to submit your civilian identity. Assuming you do, in fact, intend to pursue this legally."

Assassin shrugged. "I can't speak for the others, but I'd be willing to give you mine. I'll be purchasing a residence in this city soon. The PRT wouldn't struggle matching a black-haired amputee to this mask anyways."

She sounded sincere. _Was_ sincere, if his lie detector was accurate – the certainty was lower than usual, but still within the confident range. At least she wasn't fool enough to expect anything other than disappointment.

"It's out of the question, sir?" Gallant asked.

"We'd be trading a precious appearance of legitimacy for a worthless appearance of oversight. The association would be a liability besides. It's worse than nothing."

 _And_ _she knows it._ Knew it with certainty, even though the offer had apparently sounded, on some level, feasible to a not-unintelligent Ward.

The nagging feeling he'd felt earlier crystallized into clear thought. Her costume. That arm. Her confidence and knowledge. Everything pointed at _e_ _xperience._ And despite that, like her teammates, she'd kept a distinctive power out of any PRT-accessible database. A cape calling herself Assassin had left no witnesses of a previous cape career.

Damn Piggot's hesitation to brand them villains.

"I don't expect a favorable response, but the offer's on the table." Assassin turned her head, very deliberate, almost mechanical. Staring directly at him. "I understand the need for caution, but peeping isn't very gallant. I'll be generous and assume I'm not looking at an ambush."

Colin didn't startle. _Caster._ Was Assassin in contact with her teammate somehow? Or did she have perception powers of her own? His active sensors weren't picking up on anything.

"Please don't misconstrue their presence," the PRT employee said, calmly. "A sudden confrontation was deemed too forceful, so they were asked to wait outside. This meeting is being treated strictly as a potential team registration. If you have no further business with the PRT, the Protectorate _would_ appreciate your time for questioning, but that's entirely optional." A fairly transparent half-truth, even without his equipment.

"And how would it look if I refused?" Assassin sighed. "I'd sincerely rather not, but fine. Let's try communication."

* * *

"Armsmaster. Gallant," Assassin said as they entered the room. The names were emotionless, more acknowledgment than actual greeting.

"Assassin," Colin returned, managing a neutral tone himself. He offered his left hand, and after a moment, Assassin stood to shake it. Minimal hesitation, no particular eagerness, nothing besides Gallant's power registering on his instruments. Individually, none of that meant anything, but it let him cautiously dial back his suspicion of an unreported striker power. Someone cut off her arm. It would've been for a reason.

As Assassin shook hands with Gallant, Colin considered his approach. As much as he'd like to confront and let his lie detector do the heavy lifting, an experienced cape wouldn't let critical information slip so easily. Worse, she wasn't under arrest. Demand answers too aggressively and she'd have her excuse to leave. These 'Servants' had sent a teleporter to the table. The message was transparent enough.

Seating herself, Assassin gestured at the other chairs. "You had questions. I can try my hand at answers."

"Let me confirm something first," Colin said. "You've made yourself sound like the leader of your group. Can we proceed on that assumption?"

"It's fine. I'm the closest thing." After a moment of Colin's silence, she clarified, "No one leads because the others wouldn't follow. We're similar enough people it hasn't caused a problem yet. If it means anything to you, I'm the most senior member."

Truths, or at least conviction. What kind of team was this? No clear leadership. Little attachment to names. Hesitant about their group as a whole. Was the group unexpectedly fragile? A potential avenue to break them apart and recruit the pieces into the Protectorate?

No, that was being premature. Three or four capes didn't just happen to make an introduction like theirs. There had to be something to unify them in the first place.

"And your members all intend to be heroes?" Their specific goals were of much greater interest, but this seemed safe enough territory.

Assassin shrugged. "Caster would tell you right and wrong have little to do with what we label ourselves, and I don't disagree. The PRT hasn't branded us villains. I suppose we're heroic enough."

Colin clenched his jaw. The gray area of vigilantism wasn't anywhere near that simple, and she obviously knew it. But the truth of the matter was, Piggot _was_ tolerating them for now. While he represented the Protectorate, he couldn't take a different stance.

"For what it's worth," she continued, "I came here today hoping to make allies, or avoid making enemies if you think I'm being presumptuous. You have concerns about Caster, so ask. It's her intention to look unpredictable and dangerous to enemies. We don't consider the Protectorate one."

Protocol discouraged engaging villains – or independents, Colin supposed – in a way they clearly wanted, but there wouldn't be a clearer opening to drag out some truth.

"Then let's have you explain some matters." He brought up a text file on his helmet's display. "Caster claimed she informed the police about her targets six hours in advance. We've been able to verify this to an extent, which speaks in her favor, but several major sites were clearly targeted without warning."

"Caster has a list of neglectful or corrupt police officers. She intends to address them eventually. You're welcome to a copy if you think something can be done sooner."

Nothing that was verifiable immediately, but it was something. "I'll have that list, and urge Caster to leave this to appropriate authorities. No one benefits by handling this in a way that further alarms the public."

"You've met her. Did she give you the impression she trusts the system?"

 _Damnation._ No counting on this Assassin to curb her teammate then. They'd have to rush the investigation. Caster wouldn't be able to get away with attacking law enforcement as openly as she had criminals, but it'd be idiotic to count on sensible decisions from her. The fact she hadn't made any big moves since that first night... was it the silence before another storm?

"Assuming you have proof, I can... comprehend distrusting regular authorities. But your group's involvement makes this our jurisdiction. It'll be handled appropriately."

"Protectorate aside, you say that like the PRT is deserving of more trust." Her voice was light, curious. "It doesn't exactly have a stellar record. I believe Caster caught six costumed criminals that night. Are they even still in custody?"

"That's confidential information." Frustratingly, the truthful answer was a simple yes.

"Okay, so let's say they are. I think we can agree not all of them will make it as far as parahuman detainment. None of them are criminals who desperately have to be jailed, but monsters like Hookwolf haven't been handled any better."

Colin gritted his teeth. Birdcage-bound and escaped twice, a stain on his record. Was she needling him intentionally? Hadn't she been sent out to contrast with Caster's attitude?

"I'm not saying we won't cooperate. I'm here to reach out after all. But don't expect to change our methods with words. When Caster told you we don't subscribe to your brand of heroism, she didn't mean we don't understand the PRT's illusion of a functioning system. She meant we reject it."

Ah. _T_ _hat_ brand of vigilantes, were they? No-name rebels, convinced they understood a subject experts in the field still fiercely debated. Colin suppressed a scoff. "You'll forgive me if I don't credit every newcomer vigilante with a perfect understanding of the bigger picture."

"We don't have much stock with you yet, so I won't contest that," Assassin said, unconcerned. "But we understand enough to see it's starting to fail, and it isn't going to get better. Look at the rest of the world. You could call this city the American forefront of that same failure. In a way, that's why we're here."

 _Do they think they've discovered something new?_ That decline was _precisely_ what the Protectorate fought back every single day.

"And you believe Caster's recklessness is the answer?" Colin's tone made it perfectly clear what he thought about that. Perhaps too much, if Gallant's glance was any indication. "She's staved off retaliation with shock and awe for now, true, but it'll happen eventually. And if they can't find _her_ _,_ innocents get caught up instead. Why do you think we've been guarding the neighborhoods she's all but claimed?"

Assassin leaned forward to rest her arm on the table. For a moment, it seemed like she'd have the audacity to ask for tea. "Caster's introduction was about sending a message. In a month's time, you'd understand without me needing to explain. If I explain now, it'll just be words. I'd really rather not."

"Try me."

A deep sigh – or the movement of one, but strangely not the sound. "Look, we understand why the PRT is how it is. The cape code on one side, the three strikes act on the other, written and unwritten conventions to prevent fights where everyone loses. Part of a necessary balance. Of course we're on board with that—"

"Then—"

"— _in principle._ But it doesn't function because of some lofty solidarity, hero and villain united against the Endbringers. It functions because it benefits villains overwhelmingly more. Monsters like Lung and Kaiser are allowed to gather profit and power as long as they're quiet about their murder, their drugs, their prostitution, and all the heroes receive is a little leeway to throw more bodies at the Endbringers. It can't possibly last."

 _It's reality. The reality we fight to change._

"We need villains to behave. The PRT settles for villains _appearing_ to behave, and that's our problem. Caster saved lives, stopped crime in a third of the city, freed girls as young as thirteen from the ABB, and now she's a bigger problem to your Director than slavers and Nazis. Because it was _noisy_. You don't think that's absurd?"

 _N_ _o._ Not if he looked at the bigger picture, the longer term. Each time a cape like Caster barged into public awareness, people were reminded to fear parahumans a little more, a fear reflected in acceptance, funding, in recruits. Things that risked crippling the Protectorate years down the line, with effects rippling out to the rest of the world. Winning fights wasn't enough to win the war. Saving innocents wasn't.

Colin couldn't shake the feeling his answer would've been different ten years ago.

"I think," Gallant's calm voice filled the silence, "that heroism isn't just about fighting crime. It isn't _just_ about helping people. The Wards, the Protectorate, we're examples. The public looks at us and we foster in them the principles we stand for, to strive to be excellent. Caster... I don't mean to offend, but all she inspires is fear."

A small pause. When Assassin spoke, it was quietly, almost sad. "It's a nice sentiment. But that's a war against human nature, and you're choosing the wrong weapon. Laws and punishment exist because expecting decency has never been enough. It isn't enough with capes, not when trigger events choose the worst of us, the most broken. When powers are given to people who have power and want more, whatever their reason." A small tilt of the head – Colin wasn't sure what at. "Too much power concentrates in the wrong hands. Hands not so easily swayed by positive messages and good PR."

These were ideas that appeared in parahuman studies. _A reader?_ "And you think intimidation _is_ the right weapon?"

" _E_ _ffectiveness_ is. Monsters need stopping. More moderate villains need to be reminded about the lines they can't cross. If we show it can be done in Brockton Bay, it can be done elsewhere, and I'm convinced there will be responsible heroes willing to try. I even think the public could get behind it."

Pieces of the puzzle slotted together. _Servants._ A self-effacing team name, with individual names that were closer to roles than identities, even for capes. A theme that others could join? The suggestion they'd come to this city for a reason. Were they starting a movement?

 _Naive._

The idea of less compromising heroism wasn't complicated. It wasn't new either – he was sure there'd been groups that waved a similar banner. All the same, he'd be a fool to dismiss it. Backed by enough power and success, magnetic enough champions, any message could get traction; Caster had demonstrated power, Assassin clearly had alluded to a plan, and the message itself was more seductive than most. Colin considered himself as much soldier as hero, but even so, it was easy to imagine the temptation.

Fighting the war without being hamstrung by considerations his gut told him were secondary. A heroism where he wouldn't have to spend so much godforsaken time on also being a politician. There would be targets, he would take them down, and it would actually make things _better_. Things had been that simple once. Better times, he was honest enough to admit. Before his stagnation.

How many of his team would be tempted? Hannah and Robin wouldn't, he suspected, but the others? Assault? Battery? Triumph? Dauntless? The Wards? Who _didn't_ chafe under PRT restrictions sometimes? He had, more than once, even during this conversation.

Colin refocused on Assassin. Was that her aim? She was adversarial, yes, but always toward the PRT. Not once had she attacked the Protectorate, or even grouped them together.

From half-formed thoughts and a strange chill, meaning coalesced. _Assassin._ It was the role someone took upon themselves to end to something. Forcing change, not with a knife or poison, but whispers in the ears of soldiers, stabbing into the obvious vulnerability almost every hero shared.

 _We're_ _heroes. Of course_ _we_ _want to_ _do_ _more._

A ringing pierced the silence, a sound that turned _cold_ with realization. It wasn't just a phone. It was all of their phones.

Colin stood with enough force to dent the chair with his armor, sending it clattering into the wall. _Where? Which one?_ The alert was appearing on his helmet display. Australia.

He glanced at the vigilante. Plenty of people signed up to Endbringer alerts without any intention to participate. Was she one?

"If that look is a question, your protocols don't allow you to bring independents to Simurgh attacks without a psych eval. Don't fucking test people with an Endbringer." Then, quieter, "If it were up to me, I'd be there."

Without wasting time on goodbyes, Colin left her and Gallant in the interrogation room, already arranging security overrides ahead of him to shave off precious minutes. Assassin's portals… no, this wasn't the time to subject himself to unknown powers. Foolish. Some focus must still be lingering with the vigilante.

 _She would've attended, would she?_ Truth, like her every other statement.

Perhaps, at the end of the day, he could afford to leave it there. If these new independents were enemies, they were enemies of the PRT, not the Protectorate. That may still reflect on him to an extent, but it ultimately wasn't his fight. Let Piggot manage that squabble.

He had the war to worry about.


End file.
